The Ancient Call
by FlyingLovegood123
Summary: There were once Dragons. You will not find anymore alive today in this world-but Scott and his Pack are about to discover that not all myths end. They need the help of an ancient Dragon Master in order to save Beacon Hills, but first they must find him.
1. Chapter 1: The Call

"_So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings."  
_― J.R.R. Tolkien

* * *

Prologue: The Call

* * *

_ July 31__st__, 1050 A.D._

They called it the Demon's Call, the Shadow Call, the Black Call.

Most just called it the Death Call.

No one knew what unholy creature on God's green earth made the cry, only that everyone huddled in their homes that night, unwilling to step foot beyond the comforting fires.

Animals shrieked in symphony, their terrified wailing weaving in and out of the heart-stopping screech.

No one slept that night.

They stayed up, muttering to each other under assault of the dark scream and the howls and braying and wondered in fear what was happening. What was making the Call? Did it mark The End? Had Judgment Day come at last?

Little did they know the Call ended an Age.

* * *

Once there were dragons in this world.

You'll have to take my word for it, for the dragons have long since gone, as have their Riders.

For a long time before the dragons disappeared, humans and dragons were the fiercest of enemies, both sides taking many lives.

That's when the Master of Dragons stepped in.

No one knows just what they did; only that slowly, gradually, the dragons began disappearing off of the face of the earth. Anything about them—books, drawings, jewelry—it was all tracked down and vanished in the darkness of night, too.

Dragons had always been pests, menaces, even threats to people's livelihoods and lives. Kingdoms began hunting them when one too many crops withered up in flames. Wings were presented in halls and teeth were worn proudly around necks. Their poisons were harvested, their spikes used in displays. No one noticed that fewer and fewer dragons were to be found. When they did, it was already too late. At first the people cheered, thinking their tactics had worked, that the dragons had gone to bother somebody else.

But word got around, and soon people began to realize that the dragons hadn't just moved on from their ancestral homes to another land; they were gone for good. When people rushed for their books to figure out why—after all, most of the time humans and dragons coexisted quite nicely and dragons were even helpful when it came to dealing nosy neighbors—dragons were quite attached to fish, most had discovered and if side fish were on said nosy neighbors roof, well . . . accidents happen—they found that their books were gone as well.

Soon it was like dragons had never existed at all.

Years passed, and though tales were passed from father to son, mother to daughter, the children expressed their disbelief that such creatures could exist; after all, they saw the goat in the fields, the cows in the pasture, and the pigs in the pens. But there no dragons to see. Not even a hint.

Slowly, dragons faded from people's lives, and most stopped wondering where they had gone.

And then the Death Call sounded.

"_Dragon,_" Those disbelieving children, grown now with families of their own, hissed to one another, wondering if the tales and legends were true.

But they would never know.

* * *

The Call that sounded echoed through the night. It was mournful sound filled with a terrible, terrible sound. It was as though whatever made the call had lost a part of itself . . . and would never get it back.

The Call died at the arrival of day, tapering off as though the first rays of sunlight were pushing it away.

"_Unholy demon,"_ some whispered.

"_Hateful god,"_ whispered others.

"_Death itself,"_ was the general consensus.

The Call never sounded again.

* * *

Once there were dragons living on this world.

They're gone now, and humanity continued thriving, growing and expanding their empires and kingdoms, fighting with each other and working with each other.

Soon they forgot all about the dragons.

Dragons exist only in the imagination; in games played with dice, in books that describe their hoards of gold, their corrupt evilness and their lust for power.

But no one remembers that, once, they truly existed.

And that their tale . . . was not yet over.

_"Once they all believed in dragons  
When the world was fresh and young,  
We were woven into legends,  
Tales were told and songs were sung,  
We were treated with obeisance,  
We were honored, we were feared,  
Then one day they stopped believing—  
On that day, we disappeared.  
Now they say our time is over,  
Now they say we've lived our last,  
Now we're treated with derision  
Where once we ruled unsurpassed.  
We must make them all remember,  
In some way we must reveal  
That our spirit lives forever—  
We are dragons! We are real!"_

—Jack Prelutsky


	2. Chapter 2: Let Me Tell You A Story

Chapter 1: Let Me Tell You A Story

"They're hitting the mall!" John Stilinski shouted, his face red and eyes bloodshot. "I need a team out there now, and I need 'em quick. Jones!" he shouted as some of the officers hurried out of the station looking pale and sick. One of the officers sitting at a desk on the phone look up at the sound of his name. "Any news from anyone?"

"No sir," Jones said. "We're still blocked. Green tried to get out again this morning and was thrown back five yards."

"He okay?" John checked. Jones shrugged and gestured to the phone he had rested against his shoulder.

"Still in the hospital," he said. "What level is this, sheriff?"

"I'm putting it at eight." John said shortly and turned away when Jones's face blanched. "Get me Argent, now!" John barked. A couple of officers scrambled to the phones. John furiously rubbed his temples before pulling out his own cell phone, hitting the number he knew by heart.

"Hey, dad." The breathless voice at the other end did not reassure John.

"Stiles," he growled. "Tell me you are not at the mall."

"Er, well, um . . . they were having a sale?" Stiles tried. John grunted in anger. "Sorry dad," Stiles said quickly. "But, uh, if it's any consolation, Scott, Isaac and Kira are here with me."

"It's not," John muttered. "Just stay safe and if you get the chance _get the hell out of there."_

"Yeah dad," Stiles said quickly, but not quickly enough for John to miss the sound of an explosion in the background.

"Stiles . . ." He said.

"Gotta go dad, bye!" Stiles said and hung up.

John held the phone to his ear for a little while, trying to get his temper under control. The sound of the buzzing blared softly, and he closed his eyes for a minute, taking a deep breath.

"Sherriff?" Someone asked behind him. Immediately, John lowered the phone and took the one held out to him with a nod of thanks.

"Yes, Argent?" He asked. "They're attacking the mall. Some of the pack is already there."

* * *

No one knew what happened. Everyone was unprepared. It started a few weeks after the Nogitsune incident, and John was just getting used to the idea that the supernatural existed and had almost took his son from him.

They first heard it from Mrs. Young, who tried to leave down the interstate and couldn't. She called in a panic and told them hysterically that there was some sort of invisible blockade that had totaled her car. Of course, the answering officer had laughed and ignored it . . . until she called the sheriff, who headed out to see what was going on. To his amazement, and to the amazement (and fear) of the officers who came later, there was indeed a wall preventing them from passing.

Most officers tried to ignore Mrs. Young's smashed car, smoking slightly from where it crumpled into the wall. A few yards away from the pavement the wall ended, and several officers crossed from side to side testing the boundary.

The pack had immediately called Chris Argent in France, who brought Isaac along. It was a good thing they came so quickly, too—any longer and they wouldn't have made it into the town. Soon, no one could get out by way of road or cross country. Those who had heard Mrs. Young managed to get out were safely away, but most of Beacon Hill's population wasn't so lucky. At first no one knew what was happening, but assumed that the National Guard or something similar would come and figure out the problem and free the town. Bloggers and newspapers went crazy, speculating what the wall was. Some read piles of Science Fiction, looking for answers. Others were ranting about aliens and experimentation. John, the pack and the hunters had their own conversations with Deaton, who, for once, had no idea what was happening. He had never heard of spell that could trap an entire town, but promised to look into it.

No one truly panicked until the phones and emails stopped being able to call outside the town limits a bare day after the wall was completed. People were unable to post on the internet, asking for help. They panicked further when the National Guard showed up, looked confused, and seemed to be unable to see them.

But true panic didn't set in—where the entire town descended into chaos—until the dragons showed up.

At first, it was an abandoned warehouse some people went to party, and everyone considered it normal—or at least slightly expected given the town's recent burst of (supernatural) bad luck—that it burst into flames.

John had merely sighed and asked Stiles what the pack was dealing with. When everyone in the pack looked just as confused—and were unable to get a scent—that was when John went to take a closer look, taking several officers and Derek Hale with him.

But then the dragon attacked again.

It roared, in plain view, above the town. People were taken aback, thinking that perhaps this was something explainable.

It wasn't.

People started screaming when the orange and red dragon started breathing fire across the town.

That was when John gathered the people of Beacon Hills and explained about the supernatural. There were some protests, but few were unwilling to doubt the destruction an honest-to-goodness dragon had wrought.

After that people had questions upon questions upon questions—_how was the supernatural real, _it just is, _how did the sheriff know about it, _I've seen it, _how could they protect themselves,_ don't do anything stupid,_ were there any other supernatural creatures in Beacon Hills?_ Yes.

When the answer was yes, there was another round of panicking before John managed to convince them that the pack was there to protect Beacon Hills and had been doing so for years. He asked them to remember the weird murders that went unsolved before revealing that they had been solved—but had been supernatural, so John hadn't been able to put them down as solved because he wasn't able to explain how they _had _been solved.

Derek Hale stepped forward then and told them the pack would continue trying to figure this out. Several people wanted to kill all the pack and the dragons and just be rid of anything even slightly supernatural, but the majority seemed to be willing to let the supernatural creatures deal with the supernatural creatures.

Agent McCall had pulled John aside slightly as Derek answered some questions.

"Crazy as this sounds," McCall said. "It makes sense. This is what everyone's been hiding from me, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John said, seeing no reason to deny it.

"Scott's involved." McCall said.

"Yeah," John said.

"How involved?" McCall asked, a strange look in his eyes—half pleading, half unsure. John didn't want to decipher it.

"Very," John said and turned back to the town. McCall and Scott could talk it out in their own time.

After that the pack, Argent and John convened in Deaton's vet office to talk about the dragon problem.

"That's the thing." Deaton said. "Dragons have always been marked down as fantasy. There are some ancient Druidic writings that speak of such creatures, but it never anything definite, and the ones that spoke of the dragons like they actually existed all admitted that dragons were not to be found on this earth."

"So what does that mean for us?" Argent asked.

Deaton shrugged. "We have no idea how to get rid of them," he said. "But there is a prophecy—one that I was never sure was real or not. I need to look further into it to be sure, but there might be a way to find out more information if that's true."

"Do it," John ordered. "As for us, we'll stave off the attacks as long as possible. Argent, I want you to look into different ways to stop dragons. Look through that book of yours; have Lydia help you if necessary. Otherwise everyone," he looked meaningfully at Stiles, who looked back as innocent as the Devil in a nursery, "do your best not to die."

And so the last five weeks were full of dragon attacks every few nights.

* * *

Eventually it was figured out that there were only three dragons (which were still more than they could handle). There was the orange and red one that breathed fire—Stiles had called it Flame-tongue. There was one that could turn invisible and spit acid—Stiles called it the Invisacid. There was one that was violently blue and could harness lightning. Stiles called it Lightning Death. This last one caused more damage than the other two combined, but had only attacked twice in the last five weeks, so they counted their blessings.

(Most of the pack grumbled at the names, but no one seemed willing to object to them.)

John and Argent had also devised a way to evaluate a dragon attack. One to three meant the Flame-tongue, which caused the least amount of damage out of the three. Four to six was the Invisacid. Seven to eight meant both were attacking at once. Nine meant the Lightning Death was there, and ten meant all three were attacking at once (which had yet to happen). The varying degrees were used to describe how bad the attacks were.

This came in handy when the dragons attacked out of nowhere in a place that had yet been attacked—so far Main Street was a smoking crater and several neighborhoods nearby were gone, too. Most people had been displaced from their home.

John and Derek had put them in the tunnels underneath the old Hale house. None of the dragons had targeted the forest yet, and so most of the Beacon Hills inhabitants who lived outside the immediate town limit were safe. The tunnels had been excavated further to allow most people to find some niche to hide in. It was noisy and cramped, but people were safe and most of the food from convenience stores and other shops had been donated to the tunnels.

The school was the only building that had yet to be attacked—something that many scratched their heads over due to the school's history of being a magnet for destruction.

And the attacks continued.

* * *

"Some of the pack members are there," John shouted to Daniels, running to a cruiser. "My son is there, too. You get him out, Daniels, even if you have to sedate him!"

"Yes, sheriff," Daniels nodded, throwing himself into the passenger side seat as John took off. The sirens were on, but no one was on the roads to impede them.

They bypassed Main Street—the most direct route, but un-drivable in its current condition and tore around it. They were going far beyond the speed limit, but were hardly in a state to care.

When they reached the mall, the attack was over and the building was in flames. The firefighters were there, trying to drench the napalm-like flames of the Flame-tongue while some civilian volunteers were carefully identifying where the Invisacid had spit their acid. Those pieces of stone would be cordoned off from the rest until the acid evaporated in a few hours.

"Daniels, go help the others," John growled as he finally spotted his son. Daniels nodded and hurried off, looking far too relieved at escaping the argument that was to come.

"Stiles!" John shouted, marching up to his son who was standing nearby with the pack.

Stiles whirled around, eyes wide.


	3. Chapter 3: Of Ancient Prophecies

Chapter 2: The Prophecy

"Look," Stiles said as soon as he saw his dad. "I know what you're going to say, and in my defense we were _already_ in the neighborhood."

John pulled Stiles into a rough hug and shook his head. "Stiles," he said.

He felt Stiles relax slightly into the hug, but tensed up again when John softly cuffed his head. He pulled back and looking sternly at his son

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" John snapped. "They are _dragons,_ and you cannot heal like _some werewolves_ we might know!"

Said werewolves (and kitsune) looked down or away, abashed.

"I know dad!" Stiles said. "But I had a theory I wanted to test out!"

"And what was it?" John growled.

"That they were hungry." Stiles said, holding his hands up defensively. "I just wanted to see _why_ they were attacking us, and it seemed that food was a good answer!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "You mean to tell me," he said slowly, "that you went into a dangerous situation with _dragons_ that breathe _fire_ and _acid_ to _feed them?"_

"W-well," Stiles stuttered, "Um, well you see, not exact—yeah?" he said quickly under his father's furious gaze.

John opened his mouth when his phone started ringing. He pulled it out and glanced at the name before putting it up to his ear.

"Yeah? Tell me you've got something." He said. The pack members turned to look at John curiously.

"Yeah, we'll be over there as soon as we can." He said. At Kira and Stiles's questioning gazes he said, "That was Deaton. He's found something."

"Thank god," Stiles muttered, sagging slightly. "Let's go!"

John shook his head, but did not protest when they all piled into the car. Scott, Stiles, and Kira were calling everyone in the pack (and Argent) to gather at Deaton's.

"So?" Stiles asked before John could once they all had entered the clinic. Deaton was bracing himself against the counter, head bent down slightly. He glanced up as they entered before allowing his head to drop again, as though it was physically tiring him to keep it up. He looked haggard, his normally composed form was bent and bags sagged beneath his eyes. He was trembling in a way that told John he'd had one too many cups of coffee.

"What did you find, Deaton?" Argent snapped.

Deaton looked up. "An old prophecy," he said.

"What, like a _prophecy_ prophecy?" Stiles asked. "Those exist?"

"Well, it's not too surprising if _dragons_ do . . ." Isaac muttered.

"Yeah, but that's in our faces attacking us with burning acidic infernos," Stiles said. "Prophecies are just weird. Voldemort might have gone after Neville instead of Harry, you know."

"You are such a nerd," Lydia said, sniffing disdainfully.

"What does it say?" John interrupted the brewing argument, looking at Deaton.

Deaton cleared his throat and looked at a small piece of paper in front of him.

"_Six dragons, fiery creatures under the sun,_

_Six Riders, fierce warriors who follow only one_

_One trapped in life, unable to speak of home_

_One trapped where water and land turn to bone_

_One trapped in a loop, awaiting the final war_

_Two trapped in stone, together forevermore_

_The last trapped in metal, ever in pain_

_The Master of Dragons will rise again."_

When Deaton finished there a moment there was silence.

"That sounded like a fairy tale," Derek growled. "We don't have _time _for that, Deaton!"

Deaton shook his head. "Derek, it took me a long time trying to get my hands on this." He said. "I had to ask some of the oldest, most revered Druids for this—using some very powerful magic to contact them that took a lot of strength from me. This prophecy—it is in the back of all Druids' minds, because it has been around for a very, _very _long time. I don't see it as a mere whim or fairy tale, nor do most Druids."

"It said 'Master of Dragons'." Lydia said. "What does that mean?"

Deaton sighed heavily. "I'm guessing someone who has control over all dragons." He said. "Someone who could put a stop to this slaughter."

"Then we should try," Scott said. "I mean, it can't hurt, right?"

"How do we know he won't side with the dragons and not us?" Isaac asked.

"We don't," Argent said. "But the prophecy also spoke of six Riders—perhaps they could be persuaded."

"If this prophecy is so old, won't they all be dead?" Kira asked.

"Yeah, probably." Isaac said before Deaton shook his head.

"'One trapped in life, unable to speak of home,'" he quoted, "'One trapped where water and land turn to bone' it sounds to me as it they've been kept around."

"How can you _do_ that?" Derek growled.

Deaton sighed, rubbing a hand over his bald head. "There are some ancient magics that can invoke a Destiny," he said softly. "A Destiny that will not allow those involved to die until the Destiny has been completed. I know it has been cast only once, over two people. It is . . . no one knows how it is done; that knowledge is lost. However, it may be what has happened here."

"Who were the two people?" Stiles asked.

"It does not matter," Deaton said tiredly. "Only that it _can_ be done. And that . . . that is what I am guessing has happened here."

"Then we need to find them and bring them to our side." Scott said. "How to do we begin?"

Deaton sighed again. He rubbed his eyes before looking up. "There's an old summoning spell," he said quietly. "That can only be cast with the right things."

"And what do we need?" John asked.

Deaton looked at his papers, shuffling them and putting one on top. "We need an iron bowl, a leather band with some runes pressed into it, we need a parchment paper with more runes, and we need the scale of a dragon. Then we fill the bowl with gas and then set fire to it all. While it's burning, we need to say a chant."

"Doesn't sound too hard," Scott said. "I mean, we've got the dragon scales around town."

"Which is why no one has tried it yet," Argent said, realization echoing in his voice. "Because no one has seen a dragon before."

"Exactly," Deaton agreed.

"Let's do it," Scott said, suddenly in charge. "Stiles, go get the bowl. Lydia, the leather band and the parchment—copy the runes onto them with Deaton. Isaac, Derek and I will go find the dragon scale. Mr. Argent, would you go find the gas?" At Argent's nod Scott gestured for them all to head out.

John hadn't been assigned anything, so he headed to his car and headed to the station to deal with the results of the mall.

"How'd it go?" Jones asked immediately when he walked in the door.

It hadn't taken people long before they realized that when John disappeared after a dragon attack, he was meeting with the pack.

"It went okay," John said tiredly. "They've been trying to see it they can appease the dragons with food."

"Did it work?" Moles asked eagerly.

John shook his head slightly. "They're still trying."

"What's the point in having a supernatural protection group if they can't stop these things?" Jonckner asked snidely.

"Look, dragons have been dismissed as a fantasy by even the supernatural world." John snapped. "Suddenly they exist and have been attacking us for no reason. At least they're _trying_ Jonckner, which is more than we can say for you!"

Jonckner looked down, fuming. John turned away. "Anyone else?" He growled. There was some head shaking and John stormed over to his office to file a report and maybe take a moment to breathe.

Thirty minutes passed, and his phone rang. John saw Stiles's ID and held it to his ear. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Dad, we've collected everything. Wanna see this?"

"Sure," John said. "I'll be there in five."

No one asked where he was going as he left; his expression saying enough.

When John got there after driving down the deserted streets he saw that the bowl had already been set up. Argent and Derek were wrestling with a large gas tank, hooking up a nozzle to it and bringing the nozzle down to the bowl.

"Not too much," Derek was saying. John was good at his job—as a sheriff and a police officer you had to be able to read people's body language and facial expressions. Derek was uncomfortable with the gas and the fire, and, his minds flashing back to Stiles's chessboard, John certainly couldn't blame him.

"Of course," Argent said. "We just need enough for the ritual to work."

John went to stand by Stiles, who looked torn between excitement and cautiousness. John felt pained to see that, but remembered that the last time Stiles did an ancient ritual he had been possessed by an evil fox spirit. John wrapped his arm around Stiles and squeezed slightly. Stiles looked up at John and smiled slightly. The two Stilinski's focused again on the rest of the pack, no words necessary.

"Ready?" Lydia said nervously. John blinked, wondering why before he saw Peter Hale, Derek's creepy uncle, lurking in the shadowed corner of the room. Whenever he saw Peter, John felt the urge to go for his cuffs—or his gun.

Peter raised an eyebrow at John as if he knew exactly what John was thinking about. John looked away, unable to look the elder Hale in the eye.

"Ready." Scott confirmed, looking at Deaton, who had a piece of paper in one hand and a lighter in the other.

Argent sent Derek away, who joined Malia and Kira in another corner of the room. Argent shrugged on some heavy duty gloves and turned the dial for gas release slightly. It hissed slightly as it was released, and John's nose was filled with the scent of rotten eggs. Deaton stood just far enough away to be safe and clicked the lighter on. He looked down at the paper and took a deep breath, throwing the lighter into the bowl that was covered in gas. There was a burst of fire, temporarily blinding John. As he blinked furiously, he heard Deaton's voice calmly reciting his ritual.

"_I summon thee, creatures of old,_

_Spirits of the earth and sky_

_Allow the ancient Destiny to unfold_

_For the hour of the Dragon Master is nigh."_

The room rumbled slightly, and the fire went from orange to blue to silvery grey. The light was getting brighter and brighter until no one could look at it anymore. John raised his hand to shield his eyes, and distantly he could hear a shriek unlike anything he had ever heard before, like a plane going at high speeds, but higher and higher until he felt like his eardrums would burst and he heard the screams of the other and he clasped his hands over his ears, feeling Stiles at his side doing the same and then—

Then it was over. John blinked at the sudden loss of the noise and the light and found that the bowl had been crushed until the weight of an enormous man.

* * *

_Far away a black ear twitched, a massive body shifting slightly. A purring growl was caught in its chest as it waited, silent and deadly. He was nearly returned . . . _


	4. Chapter 4: Meet Pelles Cruickshank

Chapter 3: Meet Pelles Cruickshank

**A/N: I will stop updating twice-weekly and go to Thursdays only. There may be some hiatus—I'm going to try and stretch this out so that the middle happens roughly around Dragons: Race to the Edge (Who's excited for that? Don't lie!)**

No, wait—John blinked and looked closer. The man was only a little older than Stiles, in his early twenties perhaps. He had short blonde hair, a flabby face and body. He wore a brown coat and black athletic pants. In fact, he looked to be some sort of linebacker or something similar.

The boy—or man?—groaned, and sat up, rubbing his head in pain.

"What the hell . . ." He mumbled. John noted he had a thick Scottish accent. The boy blinked, and John saw his eyes were dark green. The boy took at moment to look around in confusion.

"Hello," Argent said, stepping forwards slightly awkwardly. None of them had been expecting a regular looking person to come through. John knew he'd been expecting some raving, frothing half-wild man in a dark cloak and tangled hair.

"Oh, you guys did the summoning ritual." The boy said and blinked. "You guys did the summoning ritual!" He said louder and stood up quickly, swayed, and reached out for the counter to steady himself.

"Sorry," the boy continued. "It's just I'm guessing by your accents I've been transported halfway around the world, and in that short amount of time I should probably have been destroyed into atoms, but thank goodness for magic . . ."

"Uh," Scott said. "My name's Scott." He held out his hand for the boy, who took it and shook it firmly.

"This time 'round I'm called Pelles Cruickshank." The boy, Pelles, said. "But that's just this life."

"'This life'?" Peter said slowly. John jumped at his voice having momentarily forgotten the creepy werewolf was in the room with them.

Pelles nodded. "I'm the one caught in the loop," he said, "which is just a simple term for reincarnation."

"You know of the prophecy?" Deaton asked. Pelles laughed.

"Of course!" He said. "I remember my past lives when I turn fifteen. I've done tons of research into everything I can about what happened to us, and I came across that particular prophecy when I was living in the seventeen hundreds."

"Wait, what?" Malia said. "How many lives have you lived?"

"Uh, like ten." Pelles said. "Usually one a century, but I was born at the end of the last one, so . . ."

"And you're a Dragon Rider." Argent said. Pelles nodded.

"Well, 'were' would be more appropriate. I was a Rider before all the dragons disappeared," he said. "I've got no idea where they went."

"Join the club." Stiles said. "So . . . uh, you know the Dragon Master?"

"Yes, I—" Pelles suddenly stopped, making an odd choking noise. His brow furrowed and he looked so completely confused and John stepped forwards are rested his hand on the boy's meaty shoulder.

"If you can't say anything, that's okay." He said gently.

Pelles threw up his hands in frustration, dislodging John's hand. "Why can't I say it?" he asked. "I know who the Dragon Master is, and I can't tell you!"

"Maybe you can only tell us once we find him." Argent said.

"Wait, we're just going to trust this guy?" Isaac said suddenly. He pushed off from the wall he had been leaning against. "I don't want to be the downer, here, but, uh, in case you haven't noticed, we know nothing of this guy. We don't know who he is, if he was a Rider, or if we can even trust him. What if this is all a trick?" There was a collective flinch, most notably in Stiles. John stepped back to his son and slung an arm around him again.

"Sorry," Isaac said, realizing his blunder. He shot an apologetic glance at Stiles before looking at Pelles once again.

"No, you're right not to trust me," Pelles said. "There's really nothing you guys have to go on me. I've watched enough telly to know how that goes," he added wryly. "But you did use the summoning ritual and got me. I think that ought to be enough for my credentials. I'm not interested in hurting you guys."

"Yeah, and what do you get out of it?" Isaac demanded.

"A chance to see my friends for the first time in a thousand years." Pelles said. "You guys are trying to find the Dragon Riders—those are my friends. I will help you in whatever way I can to see them again."

Isaac and Pelles glared at one another for a long moment before Isaac looked away, shoulders sagging.

"So we find your friends and you're willing to help us." Malia summed up.

"Yeah . . ." Pelles said before he trailed off.

John followed his gaze and saw that on the wall above the entrance there was writing in dark soot. It was in a runic alphabet that he couldn't read, but figured it was Norse or some other Scandinavian language.

"Can you read it?" Derek asked Lydia.

"Yes," Lydia and Pelles said at the same time. They blinked and looked at each other. Pelles gestured for Lydia to go ahead, and so Lydia cleared her throat.

"'_The next will be far to the north by mountains feet,_

_Where the rainbow in the sky and clear waters meet_

_The mirror of the land is where you will see_

_Standing forever by the tortured ash tree.'"_

"Cheerful." Stiles said. "So, uh, I think this means we need to leave Beacon Hills."

"There's no way." Scott said. "We've tried everything."

"Not everything." Deaton said. "There's a spell."

There was silence. John clenched the fist that was free of Stiles. "There's a spell," he repeated slowly, calmly, "and you didn't tell us this before?"

"It will only allow four people to go over." Deaton said. "It wouldn't be useful with the entire town."

"Multiple people could have cast it!" John pointed out. Deaton shook his head.

"This magic comes at a price." He said. "And can only be cast and held by one person at a time. The amount of energy it would take for a person to cast it is staggering."

"Um," Pelles said nervously. "I didn't ask this before and I feel kinda stupid not asking but—why are you trying to find us?"

All eyes turned to Pelles, who looked even more nervous.

"Dragons have been attacking our town." Argent said finally.

"B-but that's impossible!" Pelles said. "They're all gone!"

"Not these dragons." John said. "They came out of nowhere, and there is a barrier preventing us from leaving."

"Almost like the raids." Pelles said distantly. Before anyone could ask him what he meant he continued. "How many?"

"Three," John said.

"What do they do? What do they look like?"

"One's orange and red and breathes fire, the other is invisible and shoots acid and the last shoots lightning." John said. At Pelles's pale face he added, "I take it you recognize them?"

"Oh, yeah." Pelles said. "The fire one we called a Monstrous Nightmare,"

"Sweet name," John heard Stiles breathe next to him.

"The acid spitter is a Changewing." Pelles said. "They don't actually disappear; they're more like chameleons. The last is a Skrill, and is one of the most dangerous dragons out there. If someone has harnessed that dragon, you all are in big trouble."

"So, wait, you know these dragons?" Malia asked.

Pelles nodded. "Look," he said, "I might be able to help with the Nightmare or the Changewing, but I can't with the Skrill. We only came across one in our time, and that nearly did us in. The only person who could help us is—"

"The Dragon Master," Stiles finished for him. Pelles nodded.

"There were once hundreds of dragons." He said. "Hundreds—we had to have several books for all the different kinds after a few years. But they're all gone now. Right now, we need to know where they went, and for that we need Hi—" here he made the funny choking noise again, "the . . . uh, the Dragon Master."

"And for that we need the Riders." Lydia said. "The poem would lead us to the next rider, who would have the next clue and so on, and so forth."

"Okay," Scott said. "So we need to find the Riders before we can find the Master. If only four can leave, then Pelles needs to come with us."

"I'll go," Lydia said. "In case we need to go to a different country. I can probably figure out the language or the writing."

Scott nodded. "I'll go to protect you two," he said. "Derek will be in charge."

"Scott, you're Alpha," Derek said. "You shouldn't leave Beacon Hills."

"I need to find this Master of Dragons." Scott said. "I'm the leader of this pack, like you said. If anything, he'll listen to me."

"But you're needed here," Derek argued.

"No, I'm not." Scott said. "Look Derek, right now we're at a standstill. We can't reason with the dragons, and they keep fighting us. You are just as qualified to lead while I'm away—you've been an Alpha before, you know how it works. Everyone here trusts you, and will support you and help you. But because I am the Alpha, I need to go and talk to this Master."

"The Dragon Master I know would listen," Pelles said, entirely unhelpfully in John's opinion. "But I don't know what's happened to him in the last thousand years or so, so. . . I agree with him."

"I need to be there," Scott said, determination smeared across his face. John felt a rush of pride for this boy who was almost his son, who had grown and matured in so many ways since this all started.

Derek and Scott stared at one another for a long while before Derek finally nodded.

"Thank you," Scott said. "There's one last opening. Who's coming?"

"Oh, hell yeah." Stiles said, stepping forwards.

"What—no!" John said loudly. Stiles turned to face him.

"Dad, I'm going." His son's face was as determined as Scott's.

"No," John said. "Absolutely not. I won't allow this Stiles."

"Dad, I will be out of a dragon infested town. That's safer than being _in_ a dragon infested town, right?"

"N—that's not the point, Stiles!" John said loudly.

"Dad, let me help!" Stiles said. He was looking intensely at John, and John looked back. "Please," Stiles added.

Stiles wanted to make it up, John realized. John had heard him and Scott talking one night shortly after the Nogitsune was trapped. Stiles felt entirely responsible for Allison's death and each death that had occurred. Stiles wanted to make it up to everyone. For not being strong enough, for killing his friends and everyone else who had died. For letting the Nogitsune in in the first place. John realized he wouldn't be able to stop Stiles in this—he could only support his grieving, aching son.

"Stiles," John said, his voice faintly cracking. "You don't have to."

"Yeah, I do." Stiles said. John shook his head, not in denial, but with the air of one giving in.

"You keep him safe," he told Scott, Lydia and Pelles. His voice was thick, and he blinked at the ceiling. He noticed that the room had grown quiet in the face of his and Stiles's discussion, and he wished that it could have been behind doors, away from prying ears.

"Yes sir," Scott said, Lydia and Pelles adding their agreements. Lydia and Pelles looked confused as to what was happening, but Scott and John shared a moment of understanding.

"Okay," Pelles said slowly. "Um, so us Riders have all been scattered everywhere. Do you—I mean, um, sir, d'you know what happened to our dragons?"

"Wouldn't they have disappeared with the rest?" Kira asked.

"Maybe," Deaton said softly. "There are some rumors about Dragon Stones, which are said to have trapped the Last Dragons, but they're nothing more than a myth."

"How much stock did you Druids put into these legends?" Stiles asked Deaton, his tone incredulous. "I mean, you've got the summoning ritual, you've got the prophecy—how much do you believe?"

"A lot," Deaton said. "It's wise to put a lot of belief into these things, Stiles, especially from around that time period. A lot of the things that have been turned into legends truly happened."

"Yeah, like what?" Derek snorted.

"Like Camelot." Deaton said. "We Druids are still keepers of the Cup of Life—or the Holy Grail as some might call it."

There was a beat of silence.

"Okay, forget I even asked." Stiles said. "This is too bizarre. So you Druids believed that the dragons and their Riders would one day be needed, got all of the prophecy-summoning stuff together and just, what, waited?"

"Yes," Deaton said simply.

"You all are _weird,_" Stiles said. "But I guess since this is gonna save us, we can't really complain."

"Yeah, let's not." Scott said hastily. "How fast can you get us out of the town?"

"We can leave now." Deaton said. "I'm ready when you are."

"Let's get supplies first." Scott said. "We'll need money, clothing, and to figure out where rainbows in the sky and a lake and a mountain are."

"Great, that could be anywhere," Stiles snarked.

Pelles cleared his throat, "Actually," he said, "I might now where it is . . ."


	5. Chapter 5: Escaping Beacon Hills

Chapter 4: Escaping Beacon Hills

**A/N: Switching to Scott's POV. Thank you to all who reviewed, it's way more than I was expecting for this story. Please continue your support if you can—it means the world to me. Thank you all for reading.**

"So . . . you're werewolves?" Pelles asked hesitantly.

"Yeah," Scott confirmed as he shoved a shirt in his backpack. "I was bitten two years ago."

"So Beacon Hills is a literal Beacon for the supernatural, and you're werewolves."

Scott smiled. "That about sums it all up," he said. "I just thought you ought to be in the know, since we're about to go on a road trip together."

"Thanks for the heads up," Pelles said. "I heard on the news that some American town had gone missing, but I didn't think I had been _summoned_ to that town."

"Welcome to Beacon Hills," Scott grinned. It fell off his face when another thought struck him. "What about your parents?" He asked. "Won't they miss you?"

Pelles shrugged. "No," he said. "In every life my parents die soon after my birth. Car accident, this time around."

"Sorry," Scott told him sincerely. Pelles waved it away, a sad smile tugging at his round face. "What's it like, reincarnating?" Scott asked curiously.

"Normal, now." Pelles said, leaning back in the chair he was sitting in. "It's, uh, annoying. I don't know about my past until I turn fifteen, and then I get a splitting headache for a few weeks until I wake up one morning remembering everything."

"What was your favorite life?" Scott asked, fascinated.

Pelles coughed awkwardly. "Well, I don't know if I have a favorite _per se,_ but besides my first life—definitely my favorite, it had _dragons_—I liked the last one. I was born in 1912 and was named Assan Doyle. I worked on Mount Rushmore—worked on it from 1930 to its completion in 1941."

"You like building things?" Scott had all but abandoned packing now and was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at Pelles.

"Oh, I love it." Pelles said. "Something like Mount Rushmore? That's going to last for a long while, and I'll be able to say that I helped build it. I needed something that would last as long as I did."

That seemed terribly sad and lonely to Scott. _What must it be like,_ he thought, _to live your life over and over again, to be responsible for your parents' deaths, however indirectly, and know that it will all start over again and again?_

"Hey," his mom appeared in the doorway. "Dinner's ready. Isaac's already downstairs. Kira's also here to say goodbye, Scott. Come on, you two. Wash up."

"Yes, mom." Scott said, following her out into the hallway.

_It must be very lonely._

* * *

Scott sat next to Pelles on the plane. They were both tired and sore and Scott wished that the flight was over already.

They had already had a two hour break at the Philadelphia airport, and were now on their second plane to Greenland.

"So," Stiles said from Scott's left, "What were you called when you were a Dragon Rider? Where did you live?"

Pelles smiled slightly. "I lived on an island called Berk." He said. "One of my friends said that it was twelve days north of Hopeless and a few degrees south of Freezing to Death and that it was located solidly on the Meridian of Misery. It snowed nine months of the year, and hailed the other three."

"Charming," Lydia said.

"Uh, yeah." Stiles said, sarcasm biting every word. "Why didn't you just leave?"

Pelles grimaced. "Stubbornness issues," he said. "We were Vikings."

Scott felt taken aback, and thought that Stiles' "_No way!"_ summed up his thoughts fairly well.

"Yeah," Pelles smiled. "The world ought to be glad our village wasn't in the habit of raiding everybody, because we could have took on almost every single other tribe in the northern hemisphere—and the Byzantine Empire and the kingdoms scattered throughout Europe wouldn't have stood a chance."

Stiles whistled. "No kidding. On the backs of fire-breathing dragons—just, wow. So what was it like, being a Viking?"

Pelles shrugged. "Not very complicated. I grew up like the generations before me—hating dragons. They were under the control of a queen, and they would steal our food to feed her. Of course, we didn't know that and it took the Dragon Master to show us that dragons could be our allies and our friends."

"Did you tell some of the dragon secrets to the others?" Lydia checked. Pelles nodded.

"I wrote all the instructions down," he assured her. "It won't be much—I mean, there's only so much favorite food and a particular grass can do."

"So, what's it like reincarnating?" Stiles asked once Pelles stopped talking.

Pelles shrugged. "I've grown used to it," he said ruefully. "Bit of a shock the first two times, but after that I got the hang of it."

"Hey," Stiles said suddenly, "You still didn't tell us your Viking name."

Pelles ducked his head. "It's embarrassing." He muttered.

"Tell us," Stiles egged him, grinning widely.

"It was Fiskerlegger." Pelles said.

"That's not so bad." Scott said.

"It means Fishlegs," Lydia said.

"Whoa, whoa, wait—your parents named you _Fishlegs_?" Stiles said gleefully.

"It wasn't the worst!" Pelles protested. "One of the Riders is named Snotlout."

"_Snotlout?"_ Stiles gasped, trying to keep his laughter in.

"Yes," Pelles said resolutely. "There's Snotlout, Astrid, Grovmutter, Tuffmutter, and Hiksti—that's Ruffnut, Tuffnut and Hiccup respectively."

"Hiccup? Grovmutter?" Scott asked. "What's with the names?"

Pelles shrugged self-consciously. "Vikings believed those kinds of names would scare off Trolls."

"Dude, do trolls exist?" Stiles hissed, a manic excitement in his eyes.

"I don't know." Pelles admitted. "But our blacksmith, Gobber, was convinced they stole your left sock."

"Gobber," Stiles said. "These are priceless."

"Glad you think so." Pelles said. "If _you_ guys were to come to our time, your names would be the weird ones. We were part of the Hairy Hooligan tribe under Stoiske inn Enorme—er, Stoic the Vast, I guess would be the translation into English."

"_Hairy Hooligans?"_ Stiles spluttered, looking far too delighted.

"Yeah," Pelles said, grinning.

Stiles opened his mouth when the person in front of them turned around. "Hey kids, mind talking about your video games somewhere else? 'M tryin' to sleep here."

"Yes sir." Scott said.

"Okay, but seriously." Stiles lowered his voice to a whisper, at least, but he didn't let up in his intensity. "You were _Fishlegs_ of the _Hairy Hooligan_ tribe?"

"Yeah," Pelles said calmly. "But I don't think a guy with the name 'Stiles' really has room to judge me."

Stiles' mouth hung open as he tried to think of a comeback, but closed again with a snap.

"One for Pelles," Scott muttered, grinning. Stiles shot him a look of betrayal.

"Bro, you're supposed to be on _my_ side," he whined quietly.

Scott shrugged, unrepentant.

"So what's it like being a werewolf?" Pelles asked, eyeing Scott curiously.

"It's pretty cool," Scott said.

"Except everyone and their grandpa are out to get you and kill your little furry behinds." Stiles snarked.

Scott winced. "Yeah, there's that," he admitted. "But, I mean, better strength, agility, speed . . ."

"But a whole lot more things can kill them," Stiles said. "And there's, like, restrictions. They can't pass certain kinds of dust, their deadly allergic to Wolfs bane . . ."

Pelles snickered. "Dragons hate eels," he said, "and if you tickled them in just the right spot they fall asleep."

"Okay, seriously, from how you describe dragons they're like large, overgrown, and scaly cats," Stiles complained. "I've been up close and personal with them, and they _aren't._"

"My dragon was a love," Pelles said dreamily, "I miss her so much!"

Stiles and Scott shared an awkward glance before looking away, coughing to hide their snickers.

"Well, maybe you'll see her again," Scott said bracingly.

"Yeah," Pelles said, deflating a little. "I just wish . . ." he trailed off, looking away.

"What?" Scott asked gently.

Pelles grinned bashfully. "I wish I had died normally and _stayed_ dead," he said. "What I wouldn't give to just be normal."

"Maybe after this you will be," Scott said softly.

Stiles said nothing, but Scott knew his friend understood what Pelles was saying as the other boy straightened in his seat, leaning back against the headrest.

To be free of the weight on their shoulders would be a gift beyond anything else.


	6. Chapter 6: Greenland is Cold

Chapter 5: Greenland is Cold

**A/N: Er . . . I've never been to Greenland. I am so sorry if there's anything incorrect, and if you find something, please let me know! I'll fix it. I've also never used the torches I mention, so how long they last is guesswork for me. If you know, feel free to tell me. Enjoy!**

Greenland was amazing. The sky was clear and blue, the mountains in the distant was large and looming, the land rough and wild.

But it was cold.

"Okay," Scott said to Stiles, who was driving. "I'm not going to live here." He peered out the window to the snow covered mountains and wondered if anyone had thought to tell the mountains that it was mid-summer.

"It's lovely out." Pelles said, stretching slightly in the back seat next to Lydia.

"You sure you know where you're going?" Lydia asked.

"Well, last time I was on the back of a dragon," Pelles admitted, "but I think I do, yeah."

"You better. I'd hate to have landed in the wrong part of the country._" _Lydia said.

"We need to find a cave in the rock." Pelles said. "Once we do, I think it means that whichever Rider it is is frozen in ice."

"What makes you say that?" Stiles asked. "I mean, 'water and land turned to bone' could mean something completely different."

Pelles shook his head. "We Riders once went of a quest for Hamish the Second's treasure, and that was one of the clues." He said. "One of the keys was hidden where 'water turns to bone'."

"But what about the land?" Scott asked.

"Probably the mountain." Pelles reasoned.

"Uh, guys." Stiles said, braking. "It's ahead, but how are we gonna get there?"

"I bought a raft in Philadelphia!" Pelles said brightly. "It's in my luggage."

"A raft." Lydia said, unimpressed. "You brought a raft and we're just going to sail over there and find your frozen friend?"

"Yeah," Pelles said, looking at Lydia nervously.

"That's insane." She said flatly. Pelles ducked his head, flushing.

"Probably the Viking coming out of me." He mumbled. "How else are we going to get there?"

"We could hike." Scott suggested.

Stiles shook his head. "No way we human folk can get there and back before nightfall."

"Then I'll go." Scott said. "I can run there and carry the Rider back."

"And how are you going to get him out of the ice, dumbass?" Stiles snapped. "Look, you can't bring an entire iceberg back."

"Here," Pelles interrupted them, handing Scott a several small butane torches.

Scott and Stiles blinked at him before looking at the torches.

"Those'll work." Lydia said. "See you soon, Scott."

"Er, if it's Astrid you'll be fine." Pelles said. "I don't think it'll be Hiccup, but if it is you'll be fine. I know it won't be the twins. If it's Snotlout, just ignore anything he says, okay?"

"Why?" Scott asked, looking confused as he stuffed the torches into his backpack.

"He's prideful." Pelles said. "With a very big ego. That's putting it lightly. He's a good person, just self-absorbed."

"Okay." Scott said slowly. "I'll keep it in mind." With that he got out of the car and headed towards the mountain.

* * *

"Okay," Scott muttered to himself. "Now to find a cave with ice. This won't be hard." He looked apprehensively at the mountain before him. There were piles of small rocks that would collapse and slide under him if he tried to climb them. There were mounds of snow with a thin crust of ice on top that could . . . also give way under him. "Nope, this'll be hard." He said before he began climbing.

He was quite aware of the sun sinking to the far side of the horizon as he climbed and scouted and checked the different caves he came across.

"'The next will be far to the north by mountains feet,'" Scott muttered. "Okay, so here I am in a freezing mountainside. "'Where the rainbow in the sky and clear water meet.'" He blinked. "What rainbow?" He looked around, but couldn't see any around him.

"Great," he sighed to himself. "There aren't any. What was the next part? 'The mirror of the land is where you will see/Standing forever by the tortured ash tree.'"

An eagle flew over heard, calling harshly.

Scott kept walking, picking his way across the mountain slope. He tried not to go too high up the mountainside, because the prophecy had clearly said that the Rider would be at the foot.

Eventually he sat down, looking up at the sky. The sun was barely above the horizon, and Scott knew that if he waited any longer then he wouldn't be able to get back before it got dark.

He sighed and got to his feet, ready to return tomorrow so that he could continue looking.

He started down the mountainside, picking his way lower and lower. He held onto several sharp rocks, propelling himself steadily downwards.

Suddenly the rocks beneath his feet shifted, and before Scott could even cry out he was falling, falling, falling. The last thing he remembered was hitting his head, a flash of pain, and then darkness.

When he came to it was night and he was freezing.

"Great," He muttered. He touched his head and was relieved to find only a small scratch. There was a dark mass near where he had been lying that felt like blood when he accidently put his hand in it trying to hoist himself to his feet.

As he stood, he felt woozy for a brief moment.

"Okay," he said. "I'm okay." He looked around for a moment, making sure he had everything. The torches were undamaged and still in his backpack. He shivered; suddenly very glad he had his jacket. He had a feeling that without it, Werewolf or no, he probably would have frozen by now.

He started walking, trying to get moving and return feeling to his toes. He was climbing over a rock when suddenly he stumbled upon a small cove, where the lake at the foot of the mountain went deeper into the base.

"Okay," Scott said, looking closer. The water was unnaturally still, almost . . . almost mirror-like.

Scott scooted forwards, peering into the water's depths. Above him the sky was clear, the clouds had scurried away and the stars were the only thing shining down at him—the moon was dark.

"Well," Scott said. "I think I found the mirror."

Just as he said that the sky lit up. Scott felt his mouth drop open as the northern lights filled the sky, dancing and weaving through the air.

"And the rainbow," Scott said. He blinked for a moment. "Wait—the rainbow! The mirror! Now the ash tree . . ." He trailed off, looking around him. Under the flickering light, on the far side of the lake he saw it.

It certainly looked tortured—it was bent and under the gentle lights it looked like the branches were writhing.

Scott gulped before edging around the lake and hurrying over to the tree. It was growing against a wall of rock, some roots growing across the rock surface and burying themselves in cracks. The branches were bare, and the wood blackened. He put his hand against it and felt strips of bark scrape at his hand.

He peered around, trying to see any ice but instead . . . behind the, with just enough room for him to squeeze into, there was a cave entrance. Scott felt a smile cover his frozen face as he threw himself into the entrance and into the cave.

Inside was pitch black, and Scott blinked, trying to see. He shook his head, trying to wait for his eyes to adjust, but he was freezing waiting there. He hopped from foot to foot, trying to look around, but it was too dark.

"_Do I really need to remind you that you're a werewolf?"_ Lydia's voice snapped.

"Uh, right." Scott said, feeling foolish, and let his eyes shift to their Alpha Mode. The cave was lit up in dim red, and Scott was able to make out a large cavern. It was about as big as one floor of his house. In front of him there was a Viking long ship, the prows taken down so only the boat part remained. Scott leaned over to look inside and saw a shield with a dragon-like figure painted on it. Underneath the shield was a long sword and axe crossed, their ends jutting out under the shield.

There were small, brown boxes scattered along the bottom of the boat. Scott leaned over and picked one of the ones at the head up, opening it. Inside was a long, thin stone. One end had a curved knob-like shape, but the rest was smooth. Near either end were two gems—they looked like some kind of red stone. Along the center were more of the runic markings.

Scott couldn't read them. He closed the box and replaced it at the head of the boat.

A cold breeze brushed along the nape of his neck. He spun around, but saw nothing. He shivered. Was it just him, or were the shadows . . . writhing?

It had to be just him.

_Please no ghosts_, Scott thought desperately.

"Snørrslamp, Snørrslamp, oi, oi, oi!" A voice hissed, one shadow breaking off and throwing itself at Scott.

Scott had no time to prepare—how do you even defend yourself against a shadow?—when the thing hit him. He flew back towards the entrance and smashed against the wall of the cave, his head ringing as he slid to the ground.

"Snørrslamp, Snørrslamp, oi, oi, oi!" the voice said again, louder this time.

"I have no idea what you're saying," Scott croaked. "What's a Snørrslamp?"

"Snørrslamp, Snørrslamp, oi, oi, oi!"

"Helpful," Scott said and got to his feet. The shadow had melted back into the other shadowed spaces in the room.

"Brilliant," he said. "Look, I'm just there for the Viking, whose apparently stuck in ice." He glanced about. Beyond the ship, deeper into the cave, was a wall of ice.

"Bingo," he muttered. He began carefully picking his way over, taking his time.

The cold air rushed up the back of his neck.

"Not again," he groaned as he was flung back once again.

"Snørrslamp, Snørrslamp, oi, oi, oi!"

"I get it!" Scott shouted. "Oi, oi, oi, or whatever. Will you just let me get to the ice? Please?"

"Snørrslamp, Snørrslamp, oi, oi, oi!"

"I take it as a no," Scott willed his claws to form, for his face to shift to that of the wolf. He spun around, his senses heightened to the point where he heard the ash tree branches groaning softly to itself.

But he couldn't . . . couldn't hear the shadow.

_Of course not,_ he thought, _it's a _shadow.

It hit him again, and this time he flew up to the ceiling, smashing his entire body into the unforgiving rock. There was a shudder he felt just before he fell down, and Scott wondered if the cave was going to collapse—was that what the shadow wanted?

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted another flash of movement.

"Snørrslamp, Snørrslamp, oi, oi, oi!"

Scott lunged, his deadly sharp claws raking the air.

It was a shadow. His claws didn't work on it.

_Great,_ Scott thought as he back up. _Now I've pissed it off._ His legs hit the ship as he wildly looked around.

"Come on!" He shouted. "Come on!"

"Snørrslamp, Snørrslamp, oi, oi, oi!"

Scott pressed his back into the ship when he was met with resistance from his backpack.

His backpack full of_ fire torches._

"Shadows exist without light." He murmured. He yanked his pack off of his back and hurriedly unzipped it, wincing as his claws torn the fabric, bits of thread catching at his nails. He grabbed the torch on top and flicked on the switch just as the "Snørrslamp, Snørrslamp, oi, oi, oi!" sounded again.

"Take that!" Scott shouted as the shadow was engulfed in flames.

There was silence.

"Oi, oi, oi." Scott whispered.

* * *

As he neared, he was distantly able to make out a dark shape in the ice.

Scott held up his torch.

Melting the ice was a long process, and several times Scott needed to stop and stamp feeling back into his feet and hit his fists together. His first torch ran out an hour in, so he grabbed another one and continued his work.

The cave floor was covered in water when the first rays of sunlight crept into the cave entrance.

Inside the cave still felt like a freezer, and Scott was suddenly very glad that the humans—and Banshee—stayed in the car. He could see more of the shape in the ice, could see the paleness that could be a face, varying shade of black and brown that were clothes (_At least he's not nude, _Scott thought). Scott had come to the conclusion at some point that he was melting a male, and he sincerely hoped that it was this . . . Hiccup, and not Snotlout.

He had a feeling it was Snotlout.

He continued melting the ice, briefly wondering if it was safe on this guy's body just melting him with his little torch.

_Magic is involved, _he reasoned to himself, and hoped that the magic would account for this guy being de-iced after a thousand years.

A few more hours passed and the guy's arms and a leg were unfrozen. Scott had seen some pictures on Google Images of some ice mummies, and was thankful this guy looked nothing like that. Besides being way colder than any human should be, this guy looked perfectly fine. He had some leather-cloth braces wrapped around his forearms, and his clothing was of good quality, though faded with wear and time. Some of it was fur, though Scott didn't know from what animal.

Melting the torso took longer, as Scott didn't want the guy to get burned. Slowly, with chucks of ice still stuck on some parts, the body emerged. Scott left his face for last, which (looking back) was probably a mistake, but one he could hardly remedy now.

The guy had thick black hair, a thick square jaw and a metal helmet with horns.

Scott blinked and looked again—he was pretty sure Vikings hadn't actually worn those. Stiles had looked into at some point, and even though most of the information escaped his head, Scott remembered something about the horned helmets being a myth.

"Huh," He said and finished up, the back of the guy's head breaking free with a crack. Scott caught the guy and lowered him slowly to the wet ground, laying him on his back. Scott breathed in deeply for a moment, cracking his neck and stiff fingers before picking the guy up and lugging his stout body out of the cavern and into the (warmer) fresh air.

He set the dude next to the lake and looked around for a moment, taking a breath and gauging the distance between the lake and the distant road. Below him the Viking took a deep, shuddering breath. Scott watched him apprehensively, but the dude didn't wake up. Color was returning to his face, and he turned his head slightly to find a more comfortable position. Scott sighed in relief.

He looked at the road again and bent down, ready to pick his unconscious companion he spotted the same dark runes etched into the rock next to the ash tree. He fumbled for his phone and took a picture, making sure to get all of the words in the frame before tucking it away and pulling the guy into a fireman's carry, beginning his trek across the base of the mountain and around the lake.


	7. Chapter 7: Next Stop: Freedom

Chapter 6: Next Stop: Freedom

It was getting late by the time Scott got back, his speed hampered by his load. The guy's helmet kept falling off, so Scott had eventually just shoved it into his backpack and kept going. Stiles and Lydia were going out of their minds with worry, hurling themselves out of the rental car and mobbing him as he approached. Pelles followed them at a more sedate pace, though relief was evident in his expression.

"Where have you been?" Stiles snapped. "You were gone two days dude! I had no idea where you were and the only reason I didn't follow you was because _Fishlegs_ stopped me! What happened?"

"I knocked myself out," Scott said abashedly. Stiles groaned, throwing his hands up in the air like _really, dude?_

"I found him," Scott said weakly, pulling the guy off of his back with difficulty, his arms stiff in that position.

"Snotlout." Pelles said, relief in his voice.

"That's what I thought." Scott said.

"Did you have any trouble?" Stiles asked, eyeing the rips in Scott's backpack as he slung it off and shoved it on the passenger side floor.

"I'm pretty sure I got attacked by a shadow." Scott said. "It was annoying, and it threw me around, but it wasn't anything too bad."

"How'd you beat it?" Stiles asked eagerly.

"Fire." Scott said. "And I found another clue."

"Where is it? Did you write it down?" Lydia asked. Scott shook his head and withdrew his phone.

"I didn't have coverage here, but I could still take pictures." He said when Stiles furiously opened his mouth to probably chew Scott out for not calling. He showed Lydia, because Pelles was kneeling on the ground next to Snotlout.

"_There they stand, trapped how they were found_

_Through chains of stone is how they were bound_

_Go where freedom stands on an island in the murky sea_

_And where a pathway stretches across water—where they'll be."_

"'A plus' for rhyming." Stiles muttered when Lydia was done.

"That's nothing." Pelles grinned, looking up from Snotlout. "Hamish the second once had the lines '_Where the land meets the sea, in the crook of the master's knee/that's where your search will be...gin.'"_

"That's a whole new level of special," Stiles said and continued patronizingly, "but then again, Vikings aren't known for their poetry."

"Nope," Pelles said proudly. "But then again, we reached the Americas long before other Europeans."

"Did you ever get to the Americas?" Lydia asked, looking interested.

"Yeah," Pelles grinned. "Went there a few years before I died the first time around. The six of us flew up and down the coast. I believe we got down to South Carolina before we decided it was too hot and retreated back north."

"That's awesome." Stiles said. "What was it like?"

"Hot," Pelles sighed wistfully. "Better than it is now," he admitted. "More open space, less need to worry about being seen—I mean, some of the Native Americans met up with us, but they didn't find out about our dragons."

"I imagine that's a good thing." Lydia said.

Pelles shrugged. "Hey, some other tribes were less than friendly. The Berserkers were at constant war with us."

"Weren't those the guys who got high and dressed up like animals and hacked and slashed at anything that moved?" Scott asked.

Pelles shook his head. "Different group," he said, "but just as crazy."

"Let's get him in the car," Scott said, "and figure out where we need to go next."

They did so, pushing and pulling Snotlout's unresponsive body into the far seat of the back. Pelles climbed in next to him, Lydia following. Scott and Stiles hopped into the front seats again and Stiles started the car, putting it in drive and heading back the way they had come.

"So, we need to go to a place where freedom stands in the murky sea and on a path that stretches really far." Stiles said.

"That could be hundreds of places," Lydia said. She pulled out her phone and began typing, her brow furrowed.

"Drive slower," she snapped at Stiles. "You're going too fast for my coverage."

"You have coverage out here?" Stiles demanded.

"I got it before I left." Lydia said. "I used my time wisely."

"Duly noted." Pelles said. "What are you looking up?"

"'Liberty in the sea' gets me a ship." Lydia said. "Not what we're looking for, I think."

"Could they be on the ship?" Scott asked.

Pelles shook his head. "I think they'd be somewhere a bit more stable." He said. "I mean, the ship could sink, and then they'd be at the bottom of the ocean."

"Try 'freedom on an island'." Stiles said. "That's what the clue said, right?"

"Yeah," Lydia said absentmindedly, already deleting her previous inquiry. "Damn!" She growled. "I'm out of range."

"We'll get it back," Scott promised. "Liberty or freedom—that'll come up with something."

"Uh, so what are we gonna do with him?" Fishlegs asked, looking at Snotlout.

"He's your friend, your problem." Stiles said.

"Yeah, but he's gotta wake up! I mean, he's breathing, so that's . . . that's good, right?" Fishlegs asked.

"I don't know." Scott said. "Maybe we should get him to a hospital."

"We don't have time." Stiles argued. "We need to find out where—"

"Statue of Liberty." Lydia said.

"What?" Scott asked.

"The Statue of Liberty," Lydia repeated. "That's the freedom on the island in the murky water."

"Okay . . ." Pelles said slowly. "So where's the long pathway?"

"I don't know," Lydia said, frustrated. "We need to go and look. What does it mean 'chained in stone'?"

"Could be they're trapped in stone." Stiles suggested. "They could be statues."

"Okay," Scott said slowly, "so we're looking for statues in New York City—"

"Or New Jersey," Lydia said.

"Or New Jersey," Scott agreed. "This is going to be difficult, isn't it?"

"Very," Pelles said solemnly.

* * *

Scott wasn't sure how they got Snotlout onto the plane, only that Stiles managed to convince the ticket lady that he was his cousin who has taken some medication for plane sickness. The ticket person had waved them in after checking Snotlout's breath, clearing him of alcohol, and telling Stiles that his cousin needed to clean his mouth.

Before they had entered the airport, Scott had lent some of his clothes to Snotlout, though the other guy was broader in the shoulders and a few inches shorter. Pelles had washed his friend, the Beacon Hills teens waiting impatiently outside the bathroom. Pelles used cheap hotel shampoo and soap Stiles had brought along ("Every time my dad and I go fishing out of town I snag some, just in case" he'd said). Snotlout looked much more normal when he'd come out, though bits of toilet paper were still stuck in his hair from Pelles's attempts to dry it.

"Yeah, he's once removed." Stiles had told the ticket inspector before helping Pelles carry Snotlout inside the plane.

Their parents (mostly Lydia's) had scraped enough money for several round trips with multiple people, and so they had enough money for Snotlout's ride.

Pelles sat next to the window, staring wistful out while Stiles sat in the middle, angled towards Scott who sat on the aisle seat. Lydia and the still-unconscious Snotlout sat in another; their third seat remained unoccupied. Not many people were flying from the Nerlerit Inaat Airport in Ittoqqortoormiit to New York City.

"So," Pelles said, glancing nervously at Snotlout again. "What are we going to do once we get there?"

"New York City is one of the world's major global cities." Lydia said, leaning across the tiny isle, her voice low. "There are literally hundreds—thousands—of statues."

"We only need to look for the ones in view of the Statue of Liberty on a long walkway or bridge." Scott said, "That has to reduce the number, right?"

Lydia pulled out her phone and began tapping away again, nearly glaring down at the little screen. Pelles was back to gazing out the window, his beefy hands twisting in his lap. Stiles was twitching as well, and Scott figured that his ADHD must be acting up with how still he'd been these last few days, stuck on plane rides and car trips.

"There are several monuments and statues around the Statue of Liberty." Lydia said finally. "I can't find a cohesive list, but it shouldn't be too hard to find some on Google Maps and work our way from there."

Pelles shook his head. "These are twins." He said. "They aren't going to be monuments or anything like that. They're going to be too small to show up on Google Maps."

"Then look for twin statues." Stiles suggested.

"How do we even know that's what we're after?" Pelles said. "I mean, for all we know they could be decorating somebody's yard or something. They don't have to be people-sized."

Stiles groaned. "This is too complicated." He muttered, rubbing one hand in his hair. "_Snotlout_ was easier to find, and he was in a cave in Greenland!"

"We haven't started yet," Scott said. "Maybe we're looking at this wrong. We're stuck on the statues. There has to be something else."

"Give me your phone," Lydia ordered. Scott handed it over, unlocking it quickly. Lydia brought up the photo of the riddle and looked at it.

"Could there be something in 'pathway over water'?" She asked, pointedly looking at Stiles.

"Bridge," he said immediately. "Has to be."

Lydia nodded. "Then they're on a bridge in sight of the Statue of Liberty. That narrows it down."

"How many bridges is that?" Scott asked.

"There's one of the New Jersey side," Lydia said, returning her focus to her phone and flicking her fingers over the surface to enlarge the map. "It's unnamed, I guess, but it goes from the Liberation Monument to Liberty State Park. There's the Ellis Island bridge that also goes to Liberty State Park. That's on the New Jersey side. On the New York, I think the only place you could really see it is from the Hugh L. Carey Tunnel."

"That's three places," Stiles said. "And someone needs to stay with Snotlout—we can't lug some unconscious dude around with us."

"I can stay with him," Pelles said. "And you guys can send me pictures from your phones."

"I don't have you number." Scott said. Stiles rolled his eyes and tugged Pelles's phone out of his pocket and opened it, quickly putting in Scott's number, Lydia's number and his own number. All three phones lit up with an incoming text and Stiles shoved Pelles's phone back in his hands.

"Now you do," he said. "So, do we take pictures of any statues that we come across and send them to Pelles."

"Sounds like a plan." Scott said. "Pelles, where do you want to meet?"

"Well, I've kinda always wanted to go to the Statue of Liberty," Pelles said, rubbing the back of his blonde head. "And since I've come over the pond, I wouldn't mind a bit of sightseeing."

Stiles and Lydia rolled their eyes while Scott grinned happily at Pelles.

"Okay," he agreed. "I wouldn't mind seeing it at all, either. Lydia, you take the New York bridge. Stiles, the unnamed bridge and I'll take Ellis."

They nodded. "We'll be there in a little over four hours." Lydia said, checking her phone's clock. "I'd recommend sleep or relaxation, since we're going to be very busy soon."

Scott hadn't gotten much sleep in the last two days, and now that they had a plan, he decided that it would be a good idea to close his eyes.

* * *

He woke up when they were disembarking. They had very little luggage between them; Scott and Stiles just packed enough for two or three days, and Pelles had, of course, been yanked over to America without warning and only had what the others scrounged up in the few hours they'd been given—with the mall destroyed and most of Main Street, clothing shops were getting rare in Beacon Hills.

Lydia had the most luggage out of all of them, but even she hadn't brought much. It all fit nicely into two suitcases, and Stiles went to get them in an attempt to get rid of some of his jitters.

Lydia, Scott, Pelles and Snotlout were left to wait awkwardly near a potted plant in the obscenely busy airport. Pelles was supporting Snotlout behind the plant in an attempt to keep unwanted eyes off of his friend.

A security guard spotted them, but merely rolled his eyes muttering 'teenagers', giving them the stink eye before getting caught up in a commotion between a business group who seemed to have run into an old lady coming off of the escalator.

"Well," Stiles said, hurrying up with his baggage. "We ready?"

"Yep," Scott said, grabbing Snotlout's other arm and slinging it over his neck. Though the boy had been washed, he still didn't smell good—Scott's werewolf nose didn't help him there—and he gagged slightly, repulsed.

"Sorry," Pelles said sincerely. "We didn't bathe regularly in the tenth century."

"'S that when you died?" Scott asked. Pelles flinched.

"No," Pelles said. "I died in . . . er, I estimated 1025 A.D., but Snotlout died a few years before me. 1017, maybe? Hiccup was the one who paid attention to that. By the time I died, I'd given up years and was focused on the dragons."

"What was it like?" Scott asked. "Living with dragons?"

Pelles's eyes softened and his bulky face sagged slightly. "Amazing," He said nostalgically. "We had fought the dragons for centuries, but when peace was brought around . . . we went farther than anyone else in the world. The dragons . . . they were our friends and our companions and just . . . I miss them. This world isn't the same without them. You could go high up into the clouds, go to places no humans could ever have hoped to reach. They inspired us, they taught us, they fought with us . . ."

"Why did they disappear?" Scott asked, staring at Pelles avidly. He was vaguely aware that Stiles and Lydia were in front, breaking a path for them though they were listening as well.

Pelles sighed. "Humans," he said simply. "They started killing them. Soon the brutality was too much, and something happened. I don't . . . by my investigations a few lives ago in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries I estimate the dragons were completely gone by 1070 A.D. There are no bones, the nests were cleaned out, and I couldn't find any bodies. Any books on the subject were gone. Anything that had to do with real dragons was completely gone. I think the dragons might be on Berk."

"If they're gone from this world, they wouldn't be on your old island." Stiles said, dubiously looking over his shoulder.

Pelles shook his head. "Not necessarily." He said. "Berk's gone."

"What?" Lydia asked.

"It's gone," Pelles repeated. "I went to look in the thirteenth century. I found all the old islands, but not mine."

"How can an entire island disappear?" Scott asked.

Pelles coughed a laugh. "Actually," he said, "a whole string of islets disappeared once. They all sank into the sea."

"How?" Stiles gaped, flipping around so that he was walking backwards, facing them. Lydia rolled her eyes and stepped in front of him, guiding them all down a less crowded hallway.

"A Screaming Death," Pelles said, "a nasty dragon that's only born once a century. It's a Boulder Class dragon, and it tunneled under the islands until they crumbled under their own weight."

"Think that could have happened to Berk?" Scott asked.

Pelles shrugged. "I don't know."

"Well, continuing on." Stiles said. "I guess the mysterious disappearing Berk is going to have to be added to the list of questions we have for the Dragon Master."

"Yeah," Pelles said.

"What dragon did the Dragon Master ride?" Lydia asked. "What did you al ride? How many species of dragons were there? What could they all do?"

"Slow down," Pelles said, alarm flashing across his face. "Um, the Dragon Master rode a Night Fury—we called it the Unholy Offspring of Lightning and Death."

"Pleasant." Lydia commented, holding open a door so that they could slip out into an empty ally.

"No one saw it for years," Pelles said, seemingly unable to stop the words. His expression was clearly alarmed, his mouth moving as though he just couldn't stop talking. "It never took food and seemed to only want to destroy. It never missed—we knew how to kill every single dragon out there, but the only warning when it came to that dragon was to run, hide, and pray it did not find you."

He fell silent, snapping his mouth shut looking relieved and slightly green.

"Um, okay." Stiles said. "You okay, Pelles? That was weird. Did anyone else find that weird, or is that just me?"

"I couldn't stop talking." Pelles blurted out, saying the words as quickly as possible before closing his mouth firmly again.

"What?" Scott asked.

"I-I couldn't stop," Pelles said, hefting Snotlout higher onto his shoulder. "It's like something was making the words come out."

"Maybe it was part of the spell you Riders are under," Stiles suggested. "If so, _what the hell?_ This is such a weird spell, dude."

"More like curse," Pelles muttered under his breath. Scott was fairly certain he was the only one who heard him, and he shot the bigger boy a reassuring smile. Pelles returned it.

"Okay," Lydia said. "Dragons later. Right now, let's catch a cab and get to the bridges."

* * *

The taxi took them from the John F. Kennedy airport to the entrance of the Hugh L. Carey Tunnel. It continued on their way until they reached Holland Tunnel. They had negotiated with the cab driver to take them to the entrance of the Liberty State Park. The guys had all winced at the cost, but Lydia had taken charge and paid the cabbie fairly, but not excessively.

The ride was silent, and as soon as they all piled out of the taxi, the cabbie split. Stiles and Scott looked at each other, nodded, and then headed to their bridges, checking the maps on their phones as they walked. Pelles had enough money to get him and Snotlout to the island, and Stiles had decided that Snotlout's cover story was that he was extremely narcoleptic. Scott had grinned while Lydia had rolled her eyes.

Now Stiles was walking down the pathways of Liberty State Park, trying to figure out where, exactly, he was.

"So, I'm in the green patch," he said to himself, "and I need to get to the greyish-white patch."

"Lost?" An amused voice asked. Stiles spun around and blinked at a female jogger who had stopped, removing an earbud from the ear closest to Stiles. Her brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and rubbed against her shoulders as she smiled. She looked to be in her early twenties, with a narrow nose and clear brown eyes.

Stiles prefers green.

"Yeah . . ." Stiles said. "I'm trying to get to the Liberation Monument."

"Okay," the jogger laughed. "Not from New Jersey, are you?"

"California." Stiles said.

"Huh," the jogger said, her face scrunching up. "There's something weird going on over there. Apparently some town or something disappeared."

"Really?" Stiles asked, desperately trying not to sound too concerned. At least people knew Beacon Hills had disappeared. Everyone _really_ started panicking when the National Guard hadn't shown up to help. Stiles panicked. A little bit.

(His dad panicked more.)

"Yeah," the jogger said. "Where're you from?"

Stiles shrugged. "A small place called Likely."

Stiles's mom had taken him and Scott there once for a little time out of Beacon Hills a few months after Scott's dad had taken off. Her older cousin lived there, and had taught Scott and Stiles how to carve figurines out of a bar of soap.

"Likely?" The jogger's eyes glittered in amusement. "I _like_ that."

Stiles laughed nervously and shortly, looking down. "So, uh, where is the Monument?"

"Just walk that way," the jogger pointed to the east. "You'll hit a walkway, and you'll see the Statue of Liberty. Facing east, you'll go right and head that way until the bridge widens out to another section of the park. You'll see it, okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, smiling gratefully. "Thanks."

"Of course," the jogger said. "Want my number in case you get lost again?" She asked flirtatiously.

"No thanks," Stiles said, shaking his head. "My girlfriend's gonna meet me there."

He felt bad when he saw her wilt, but smiled again and turned to the east. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her replace the earbud, and caught a glimpse of a ring around her left finger. His guilt eased and he shuddered slightly as he kept walking.

_Creepy lady._


	8. Chapter 8: Double Trouble

Chapter 7: Double Trouble

**A/N: So, I was really tired Sunday and accidentally posted a chapter. So there's another one before this, in case you were wondering. Just a heads up! Enjoy!**

Stiles had stumbled on the walkway, the Statue of Liberty in sight. He had gaped for a few minutes, staring at the large green lady in the water.

It was impressive.

Stiles was impressed.

Eventually he shook his head and started looking around the walkway. He walked for ages, but didn't see any statues that looked like two people. He crossed the water after an hour of looking, but didn't see anything.

His phone rang as he turned to head back. He saw Lydia's name and pressed it to his ear. "Hey Lydia," he said easily.

"Stiles," Lydia said. "None of us could find anything. Let's meet back up and figure out our next step."

"Coming," he said and ended to call.

He felt down as he walked, kicking aimlessly at the stone ground. No statues, no houses any twin-like statues could be at, no large mural on stone that screamed 'Ancient Dragon-Riding Vikings Trapped in a Spell/Maybe Curse-Thing Right Here!'

Zip.

Zero.

Nada.

Goose eggs.

Why was it Goose eggs? What had those eggs ever done to be considered zip, zero, nada?

Never mind. Focus.

A light breeze brushed his hair and face, cool with a tinge of gritty warmth. He breathed in the salty air, so different from Beacon Hills's colder dry air.

He was from California, but not all California was sunshine and beaches. He was digging this sea air, even though it probably wasn't good for him, this being New York City and all.

He fiddled with his phone instead of putting it in his pocket, turning it around and around with his fingers, letting the momentum do most of the work. There weren't many people out there with him; there was a couple sitting on a bench, an older male jogger taking a stretch break on the opposite of the walkway and a teen, younger than Scott, beating his head to the tune his headphones were giving him.

Stiles jerked forwards as someone ran into him. He flailed, skidded, squawked (it was a manly squawk, shut up) and managed to catch himself on a nearby metal bench before looking around for the charging bull that knocked into him.

There was no charging bull (dang) but there was a girl, about ten, behind him.

"Sorry!" she said. "I didn't . . . I wasn't looking." A boy a few years younger—they could be siblings, with the same curly brown hair and serious brown eyes—was shifting his feet a few feet behind the girl.

"I'm fine," Stiles assured her. "You didn't hurt me. Are you hurt?" She shook her head. "You must've been going fast." Stiles continued.

The girl shot a quick glare at the boy. "Yes," she said.

"Where were you going?" Stiles asked curiously. "Or was it, like, just tag or something?"

"It wasn't _tag,_" the boy piped up. "We were lookin' fer the ghosts!"

"_Poltergeist,_" his sister hissed. "That's wha' mom called it."

"Sorry, what Poltergeist?" Stiles felt confused. He hated feeling confused. Unfortunately with the introduction of crazy psychopaths and magic in his life, he felt almost perpetually confused . . . and scared, but he didn't need to get into that.

He felt no remorse grilling the two kids for information.

Stiles Stilinski; Griller of Information.

Never mind. That sounded like a super chef or something. Ridiculous.

"There's a spirit or somethin' that haunts this bridge." The little girl said seriously. "It's awesome, bu' they only 'ppear once a year. They throw stuff 'round, an' make a mess of things an' stuff."

"Uh . . . okay." Stiles blinked. "Is it that time of the year?"

"No," the girl said resentfully. "Bu' last year," she continued, sounding happier, "the Poltergeist threw Mr. Zupan over the bridge into th' water. It was awesome—he looked like a drowned cat."

"I'M liking this Poltergeist," Stiles said. "Well, you two go have fun. Try not to run into anyone else, okay?"

"Okay," the girl said and ran away, the boy pounding along next to her.

Stiles grinned slightly and bent to pick up his phone, which had slipped out of his fingers. As he bent over, he noticed that there was something carved into the stone tile. He peered closer, eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher what he saw.

It was strange. That was a word for it.

Strange.

There were two humanoid figures like the ones on public restrooms. The heads and torsos were separated, but the legs were joined into one pair from the hips down.

The figure on the right seemed to be having an armful of trouble—literally. Both its arms were lying next to the torso. Its head was also carven at an odd angle.

The other torso seemed to be lying peacefully, its elbows jutted out like the arms themselves were crossed over its chest.

"Huh," Stiles said, still kneeling on the ground. "Okay. Weird." He picked up his phone and snapped a picture before taking a panorama of his surroundings. He texted it to Lydia, Scott and _Fishlegs._

_i think i found it_ he texted them, _come quick._

He sent it and waited, studying the stone in front of him.

_ok,_ Scott texted back, _leave it alone &amp; wait for us, k?_

Stiles snorted and slipped his phone into his pocket. He wasn't making any promises like that when he had no idea what could set it off. Come on, Scott. Stiles is disappointed in his friend.

This looked like a normal spot. Like, there was literally nothing around except a streetlight and a bench and some disgusting wrappers tumbling about in the light breeze. Stiles squinted at the carvings again and reached down, tracing the outline of the shapes.

There was a crack, like stone breaking. Stiles flung himself backwards, skidding across the ground and slicing open his thumb as it caught in a crevice. He stuck it in his mouth, eyes wide as he watched the carved shapes rise up from the ground like zombie cookies—something about them reminded him of the cookie cutter gingerbread things his mom used to have.

Well, that thought was totally childhood-ruining.

Not that he had a good childhood, but . . .

Yeah, back to the zombie gingerbread people.

"Jesus on a beach ball," he swore as the carvings became three dimensional, unsticking from each other, gaining independent legs and feet. They grew from three inches to ten, to seventeen, to twenty-five. Stiles watched in awed silence as the carvings stumbled, hands growing definable fingers and more humanoid. The carving that had lost its arms bent forwards, and the arms flew up to its shoulders and reattached themselves. As soon as that had happened, the figure straightened and blotches of pale skin began appearing on each of them. Blonde hair began sprouting from their heads and cascading down their shoulders. Their limbs were long and gangly, their torsos without any curves.

The one that had lost its arms was female, Stiles saw, while the other was male. They looked remarkably alike for being different genders—Stiles blinked at their similar facial structure and complexion. It was like looking at a slightly disoriented mirror.

"Whoa," the guy said, swaying slightly. "That was weird." His voice was deep, and when his sister spoke next, Stiles had to shake his head slightly to make sure that a different person was talking. They sounded _scarily_ similar.

"Yeah," she said. "Hey, Tuff."

"Sis!" 'Tuff' said (seriously, these _names._ Stiles couldn't get enough of them). "You died, and then I didn't have anyone to pick on."

His sister—Ruffnut, did _Fishlegs_ call her?—shrugged like his complaint didn't concern her at all. What was with these twins? Even Ethan and Aiden cared about each other.

"Well," Ruffnut said. "I'm here now." And, just to prove her point, apparently, she slammed her fist into his face, a smirk spreading across her face. Tuff grunted, but managed to stay on his feet. Then he continued talking like he hadn't just been _punched in the face._

"Yeah," Tuff—_nut,_ Stiles figured—"But—hey! You're back."

Were they just stupid or something?

"Was my death any good?" Ruffnut asked eagerly.

"Oh, yeah." Tuffnut said. "It was everything I pictured."

"What?" Stiles blurted out. He could deal with a lot of crazy things, but this was just ridiculous.

As one, the twins turned to face him. "Oh, hi." Tuffnut said, shrugging slightly. Everything about these two screamed 'laidback druggies'. If these two had been reincarnated, then Stiles could totally see them getting high and daring each other to do increasingly dangerous stuff. Which would be entertaining, but freaky.

Stiles was actually leaning more towards painfully entertaining, personally.

"Who are you?" Ruffnut asked, looking Stiles up and down frankly. Stiles realized he was still on the ground and hastily stood up, looking them in the eye (they were both slightly shorter than him, but not by much).

"Uh, Stiles." Stiles said. "I set you free?" He meant to say it as a fact, but it came out more as a question. He didn't know how to react to these two people.

He also realized that no one was looking over at them; the couple was still sitting on their bench, the jogger had moved on, the teenager was leaning against the railing not ten feet away, still listening to his music.

No one was screaming about two Vikings who had appeared out of a three inch stone carving.

Because these two people were dressed similarly to Snotlout, with the furs and rough cloth and even a tattoo of a dragon on Tuffnut's left shoulder.

And they both had 'Viking helmets' perched on their heads that all his internet histories told him were a myth.

"Oh, cool." Tuffnut said, pulling Stiles's out of his daze. Tuffnut sounded completely unconcerned by Stiles's existence and turned back to his sister. "So, what've you been up to?"

Ruffnut shrugged. "Not much," she said. "Don't really remember much."

"Mm, nor do I." Tuffnut agreed.

"Wanna see if we can blow anything up?" Ruffnut asked, a truly diabolical smile stretching her thin lips.

Stiles was not at all reassured by her brother's answering smile.

"My dear sister, I would _love_ to!"

"Uh, Fishlegs is coming." Stiles blurted out, feeling the need to step in and stop them. Hey, look, dad, look at Stiles being all responsible like a real grown up!

Both twins turned to look at him again.

"Fishlegs?" Tuffnut asked, looking slightly confused.

"Yeah . . . we knew him, didn't we?" Ruffnut asked. "He was, like, our friend or something."

Stiles felt completely lost, something which he was not used to, at all. These two were too weird for him, and that was saying something when he looked at the mess his life had become and who _he_ was.

Stiles Stilinski, friend to werewolves, reluctant ally to crazy hunters, and host for evil Fox-spirits.

Much more accurate than some sort of chef.

"Yeah . . ." Tuffnut said slowly. "Yeah, we knew him . . ."

"Okay," Ruffnut said, flopping to the ground. Her brother soon joined her, crossing his legs and leaning against the rail. His helmet slipped down his forehead slightly.

"What's with the helmets?" Stiles blurted out.

"What helmets?" Tuffnut asked uncomprehendingly.

"This one," Ruffnut said as she thumped her fist onto the hard metal.

"Oh," Tuffnut said. He and Ruffnut shrugged in unison. "Everyone in the archipelago has one," he said. "It's just something we do, I guess."

"But they're impractical." Stiles pointed out.

"I think they're the horns of slain dragons." Ruffnut said with a bored (but slightly clueless) expression on her face. "And the metal part protected our heads from, like, fire and rubble and stuff."

"So . . . the horns are from dragons you killed, and the metal was just general protection?" Stiles said.

"I dunno, I guess." Ruffnut said. "Usually parents give their kids a set. Ours did."

"We had parents?" Tuffnut blinked. "Whoa, when did _that_ happen?"

Ruffnut shrugged. "We could ask Fishlegs," she suggested.

"Hmm, good idea." Tuffnut said.

"We could start walking in that direction." Stiles said, pointing the way he had originally come.

"And then blow something up?" Tuffnut asked, sitting up straighter.

Stiles shook his head. "Find Fishlegs first," he said, trying to sound authoritative.

"Oh, yeah!" Tuffnut shouted, leaping to his feet alongside his sister. They banged their heads together and were off, half-running down the walkway. Stiles jogged after them, very glad he wasn't a bad runner after working with the supernatural for two years—he really needed to stop hanging out with unsavory characters. Come to think of it, he really needed to reevaluate his life choices.

(He was chasing after two Vikings (complete with helmets that every website swore was a myth) down a New Jersey bridge near the Statue of Liberty. Yep, he needed to rethink his life.)

"Hey, look, stupid birds!" Tuffnut yelled, running after a flock of fat pigeons that waddled quickly into flight at the sight of a weird human running at them.

Stiles wondered why they weren't getting more weird looks.

"So, uh, what's the last thing you remember?" Stiles asked in the general direction of the chaotic twins.

"Dying," they both said.

A thought struck Stiles. "How are you speaking English?" His voice sounded a little horrified to his own ears.

"What's 'English'?" Tuffnut asked.

"This language!" Stiles said, flapping his hands about. "The one you're speaking _right now,_" he clarified when their blank expressions didn't lift.

"Oh," Tuffnut said. "We're speaking some weirdly named language?"

"Yes!"

"Cool." Ruffnut said.

"How are you speaking English?" Stiles pressed.

Both twins scrunched up their faces in concentration—it looked like it hurt.

"I'm thinking . . . I'm thinking . . . I'm thinking . . ." Tuffnut looked up at Ruffnut and Stiles. "I forgot what I was thinking about."

Stiles repressed a sigh. "I'll just ask Fishlegs."

"Ask him what?" Tuffnut asked.

Stiles massaged his head. "Seriously, when I thought _Dragon Riders_ I thought more Fellowship, less Dumb and Dumber_._"

"I have no idea what you just said." Tuffnut said.

"Join the club," Ruffnut folded her arms, giving Stiles a _very_ unimpressed look.

Stiles shook his head and resumed walking, ushering the twins in front of him. They gamely went along with it, bickering to one another about what they were going to blow up first. Then they switched to which of them farted hard enough to make the water that gross murky brown. Then they switched to who was uglier, which resulted in a fistfight. Stiles just tried to stay out of their way.

_Did we just get lucky with Fishlegs,_ Stiles thought,_ or are they all kind of insane and Fishlegs is only hiding it? What the hell kind of heroes are these guys?_

But, then again, he and Scott had never been considered the hero type, and look where they were now.

Since Stiles was behind them, he was the only one to see it (everyone was still, weirdly, ignoring the twins).

On the backs of their helmets were more runes.

"The next clue," he muttered to himself. The twins didn't hear him over their squabbling.


	9. Chapter 9: Stop Hitting Yourself

Chapter 8: Stop Hitting Yourself

By the time Scott, Lydia, _Fishlegs_ and Snotlout showed up, about thirty minutes after Stiles freed the twins, Stiles was so completely _done_ it wasn't even funny. Scott and _Fishlegs_ put the slumbering Snotlout down on a bench and stood in front of him, waiting with Lydia for Stiles and the twins to come to them.

"Ruff! Tuff!" _Fishlegs_ called—and who was he kidding? Fishlegs was better than _Snotlout_—Fishlegs called.

"Hey!" Ruffnut yelled with a smiled that was something akin to genuine gracing her face. Tuffnut rolled his eyes, but followed Ruff as she darted over to Fishlegs. So, apparently they were just messing with Stiles when they said they didn't remember who Fishlegs was going. Or maybe they weren't. Either option was terrifying.

"You guys are okay!" Fishlegs said, hugging each twin briefly, carefully, and quickly let go of each as soon as was polite. Perhaps he was used to treating them like live bombs. It wouldn't have surprised Stiles.

"Hey, what are you guys wearing?" Tuffnut asked, looking Fishlegs and Snotlout up and down frankly.

"Modern clothes." Fishlegs said. "Clothes change in a thousand years."

"What's a thousand?" Tuffnut asked.

Fishlegs rolled his eyes. "I'd forgotten you guys couldn't count over nine."

"Wait, they can't?" Stiles asked.

"Sure we can!" Tuffnut protested. He held up his fingers and counted loudly, "One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . er, f-five . . . six? . . . seven . . . eight—yeah, eight . . . nine . . . uh, one-two? No, wait . . ."

Fishlegs turned away from Tuffnut and smiled at Stiles. "So, you've met Ruffnut and Tuffnut."

"How are they Dragon Riders?" Stiles asked, aghast. "They're . . . they're . . ." _stupid._

Fishlegs had the gall to laugh.

"They were willing to ride dragons after centuries of death between the two races," he said. "And they helped us defeat the Red Death. They earned their place, and they each play a different role in our group. Each person in our group, no matter how insufferable or . . . difficult . . . belongs with us. Well, that's what Hiccup said, and he's rarely wrong."

"I feel so reassured," Stiles said, watching Ruffnut and Tuffnut punching Snotlout and laughing to themselves.

"This is so _weird._" Scott said in a slightly strangled voice that had Stiles's attention immediately.

"What is?" Lydia asked. Stiles noticed that Scott wasn't looking at the twins, he was looking at Snotlout being poked and prodded.

"What is?" Fishlegs asked.

"I can't . . . I can't see them?" Scott said.

_Well._

_That_ certainly made the lack of staring make sense.

"But I can," Lydia pointed out. "And Stiles and Fishlegs can, too."

"Yeah but I found them, Fishlegs is a Dragon Rider and you're a Banshee." Stiles said. "You see things no one else does. It's a thing."

"So you can't see them _at all?"_ Fishlegs looked amazed, glancing from Scott to the twins.

Scott shook his head. "All I see is Snotlout's face moving around on its own. It is seriously creepy."

"O-okay," Stiles said. "Can you touch them?"

Scott jolted a little. "Why would I want to?" he asked.

"Because _science,_ Scott. Don't hold out on me, bro."

"I don't think science has very much to do with this," Scott muttered, striding forwards and stopping short of the bench Snotlout was on.

The twins had spun around and were looking delighted at their new subject they could torment. Stiles didn't cackle at all. Well, not very much at least.

Scott reached out and waved his hands vaguely around. It looked like he was trying swat flies.

"Warmer," Stiles called, grinning widely. Scott shot him a glare over his shoulders just as Tuffnut ducked under his outstretched hand.

"_Not _helping, Stiles!"

"A little down," Lydia stepped in, trying to direct Scott's floundering. "To the right,"

Ruffnut jerked back just as Scott's hand brushed where she'd been moments before.

"Here," Lydia marched over and grabbed one of the twins—Ruffnut—and bashed the Viking's head into Scott's shoulder.

"Ow!" Scott yelped, skidding back while rubbing his shoulder. Ruffnut merely adjusted her helmet, slapped Lydia's hand away and stormed off to join her brother who was looking highly entertained by the whole thing.

"Well, you can feel them," Fishlegs said _oh so_ helpfully.

"Yeah, I'd noticed." Scott said. _Well done on the sarcasm, Scott_, Stiles thought, _there's hope for you yet._

"So now that we know the twins are invisible but can still be felt, what do we do?" Scott asked, shooting Lydia a betrayed look which Lydia ignored efficiently.

"Try and keep them from causing too much trouble," Fishlegs sighed. "They're bad enough when they _can_ be seen."

Stiles could see that.

"Okay, we'll worry about that later." Lydia said. "But I am putting you and Stiles in charge of the twins."

"What—hey, _not fair,_" Stiles protested. "I don't want that!"

"You didn't wait for us and you can see them," Lydia sniffed. "It's your own fault. Did you see the next clue?" Lydia asked.

"No, that is _not_ okay . . ." Stiles looked at Scott for support, but Scott merely raised his hands in surrender like a _traitor._

"The clue, Stiles." Lydia snapped.

"Yeah, I saw it." Stiles said. "It's on their helmets."

Stiles, Lydia and Fishlegs turned to look at the twins, who were now using Snotlout's unresponsive finger to pick his own nose. Scott watched Snotlout. Stiles thought it must be highly entertaining to see a comatose person picking their own nose.

"I'll steady them." Fishlegs said. "Lydia, you read it or snap a picture or something."

Lydia nodded, looking at the twins like they were diseased. Stiles nearly grinned. He hadn't seen the old Lydia since before the Nogitsune . . . _yeah, _not_ thinking about that Stiles_ . . .

All the riddled clues made Stiles sick.

But seeing Fishlegs bodily throwing himself at the twins and bashing their heads against the ground was mildly entertaining—mostly because it wasn't _Stiles_ who was being thrown around. The twins were loudly protesting, but they were toothpicks under the bulk of flesh that was Fishlegs, there was little they could _actually_ do. His hands gripped the backs of their heads, steadying their thrashing so that Lydia could get a good look. She snapped a picture of the two helmets and backed away quickly as Fishlegs rolled off the twins and scampered back to Scott and Stiles.

Several passersby were looking at them now, but Stile merely grinned like a lunatic, which sent them quickly on their way.

"I could've just asked them," Fishlegs told Stiles and Scott and Lydia, "but I kinda missed them."

"You missed them, so you just tackled them and slammed their faces into the stone ground?" Scott asked, his expression incredulous. Stiles figured it hadn't been hard to piece together what Fishlegs hadn't been doing. But, well, he wouldn't know.

Fishlegs rubbed the back of his neck. "We're Vikings," he said weakly, as if that explained everything.

And it did, Stiles thought as he watched as the twins merely looked confused, and then shouted a few scathing comments at Fishlegs before going back to tormenting Snotlout like this was all a normal occurrence.

Yep. They were _all_ crazy. Lovely

"Should we stop them?" Stiles asked. "I mean, Snotlout's kinda . . . out of it and that's technically bullying."

"Yeah," Fishlegs said. "That is bullying. You go stop them."

"Wha—no, they're _your_ friends!" Stiles protested. "That isn't even fair!"

"Nope." Fishlegs said and scurried behind Scott who merely blinked at someone twice his size trying to hide behind him before innocently looking at Stiles like _Fishlegs? Who is this person?_

Traitors, the lot of them.

* * *

"'_The clue for the mute is terribly sad,'"_ Lydia read from her phone.

"'_Go to a place close to home that holds only bad_

_Bad for the land and for those living within_

_Where the clicking of cogs and wheels chime of tin'"_

"What?" Scott asked.

"No idea," Stiles said. His head felt like mush. "We should sleep."

"Yeah," Fishlegs agreed. "We need to knock the twins out, though, trust me."

"We'll do it when we find some place to crash." Stiles said, though he really just wanted to knock them out now. "One unconscious person doesn't apparently draw attention in New York City, but three might. _Might."_

"Agreed." Scott said. "Lydia?"

"On it," Lydia sighed, already focused on her phone.

"Hey, uh, guys!" Fishlegs called to Ruff and Tuff. "We're gonna head to a dark soggy place to see if there's something to blow up there."

Stiles and Scott shared a glance. _Dark soggy place?_

But it got the twins' attention. "Alright!" Tuffnut crowed, abandoning Snotlout and giving Fishlegs his attention. His sister did likewise, a truly evil smile spreading across her face.

"I found one," Lydia said. "It's not far away. Come on." Stiles and Scott went to go get Snotlout, joisting them on their shoulders. They mercilessly left Fishlegs to twin duty.

* * *

"This isn't a dark soggy place," Tuffnut complained as they all piled into the room.

"It's about to be," Fishlegs said before reaching over and bashing the twins' heads together. They sank to the floor, completely out.

"You're very violent." Scott said nervously.

Fishlegs grimaced. "I don't like it," he said. "But living for all those time periods—I mean, I got drafted for several wars. I just . . . living with ten different lives inside my head is hard, guys. You don't—you don't know what it's like. I had to toughen up, and that . . . I don't know. Violence is easier now. I don't like it, but I often didn't get a choice. And knocked out twins are easier to deal with than conscious twins."

Scott shot Fishlegs a smile. As soon as Stiles saw Scott accept Fishlegs, Stiles grudgingly did as well. His bro was unparalleled when it came to judgment of character, especially when he had this much time to observe. Some people didn't give Scott enough credit. He might not be school smart, or life smart (that's what he had Stiles for) but he was character smart, and Stiles trusted him.

"Okay," Stiles said. "Okay," he repeated. "Let's hit the sack for a couple of hours."

Stiles and Scott shared one of the beds. Lydia got the other. Fishlegs got the couch. Snotlout was given a blanket, a pillow, and the floor.

The twins got their dark soggy place in the bathroom.

* * *

When Stiles awoke, he saw that five hours had passed.

Since that was more than he had been getting lately (nightmares of riddles in the dark—he felt like Bilbo, stumbling along without a clue) he counted it as a win. His bladder was full from the water he'd chugged before falling asleep, and so he dared the twin-infested bathroom.

Ruffnut was awake, watching her brother avidly.

"Do I even want to know?" Stiles asked when he had unlocked the door and saw this sight.

"Every time he wakes up, I can send him right back to sleep!" She said gleefully. "This stone floor is _amazing._"

"Yeah . . ." Stiles said, suddenly very glad he was an only child. And that Scott was an only child. And Lydia. And Isaac. And Kira. And . . . wow, he was just surrounded by only children, wasn't he? Good. Siblings sounded like _the worst thing._

"Sorry about earlier." He said. "We needed the sleep."

Ruffnut shrugged. "We're kinda used to it. 'Lotta people did that back home."

"That's . . . horrible." Stiles said, sitting down next to the door.

Ruffnut shrugged again.

"Do you know what's going on?" Stiles asked. "I mean, we didn't really talk to you or anything."

Damn it, he was so _not _good at this kind of thing. But he really didn't want to wake the others.

"Sorta." Ruffnut said. "It kinda just was in our brains when we woke up. Something about dragons gone and . . ." she gagged slightly, "the _Master_ doing something or something. Thor's _hammer_ that's weird to say."

"Okay," Stiles said carefully, like he was talking to a patient in Eichen House. "And . . . how are you doing?"

Ruffnut shot him a smile, one that was tiny and warm and unlike any other smile or expression he'd seen on her face. "We're fine." She said. "Really. Tuffnut and I are fine. We kinda miss Barf and Belch, and kinda the other Riders, but we're fine and if we never seem 'em again we'll be less fine, but still fine."

Stiles got that.

"It's just . . ." she looked over at her brother. "I died first, right? It was painful. And even if he doesn't say anything, he missed me."

"You guys show your love . . . differently than most people," Stiles said slowly.

Ruffnut shrugged. "Maybe," she said. "But we're both really glad to be alive. I kinda want him dead, but I kinda wanna be alive to see it happen, y'know?"

"No," Stiles said honestly.

Ruffnut snorted. "We're _fine,_" she said. "We'll be okay."

"Good," he said finally. "We need to find two other Riders, then we can find the Dragon Master."

"Why are you trying to find him?" Ruffnut asked.

_The Dragon Master is definitely a 'him'_, Stiles thought, filing that away. "Dragons are attacking our home." He said. "We're trapped and helpless and really have no idea why it's happening or who's controlling them or what to do."

Ruffnut's face wrinkled in—and it took a moment for Stiles to decipher the expression—sympathy.

"Been there," she said. "'S not fun."

"No," Stiles murmured.

Ruffnut grinned, and this grin was as manic as he'd ever seen. "Hey, least you got us Riders! We'll take care of those dragons! We can handle anything! We'll protect your home!"

Tuffnut groaned and started to raise his head. Ruffnut reached over and slammed her twins' head back into the ground, where he passed out again.

Ruffnut was still smiling.

Stiles felt far from reassured.


	10. Chapter 10: It's a Phobia

Chapter 9: It's a Phobia

**A/N: May I just say that Scott and Stiles are awesome bros? They crack me up and make me cry. Enjoy!**

"We're running out of money." Fishlegs told them softly as the twins took turns slamming the other's head in the microwave. "We'll have enough to _maybe_ get all of us back to Beacon Hills, but we can't do another trip somewhere."

"Maybe we won't have to," Stiles said, thinking back to what Ruffnut said, _'We can handle anything! We'll protect your home!'_

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

Stiles untangled his arms and flung them out, "How easy has this been?" He demanded. "We found Snotlout in a few days—and Scott just _happened _to fall and knock himself out until the lights came on and pointed him to the cave where one tragically frozen Viking was? Or how the riddle—which was said to be _hundreds of years old_ led us to the Statue of Liberty where some kids crashed into me and I happened to find the twins in the forms of three inch carvings in one tile out of thousands?"

He looked at his audience; Fishlegs was gaping, his mouth open in a small 'o'. Scott was nodding slightly in agreement. Lydia looked unchanged, and Stiles knew that, once again, he and Lydia were on the same page.

"This is way easier than anything else we've done in Beacon Hills, guys." He said. "I don't trust this, but I feel like this is all directed at us, y'know? Fishlegs knew exactly where Snotlout was being kept—he didn't give us very good directions, but he knew where it was. Due to the technology of this time, Lydia could easily find out about the Statue of Liberty—which is a freaking symbol of our Nation, okay? These things are hitting _close to home_ and it's like they're directed right at us."

"If-if that's true, then someone planned for those dragons to attack Beacon Hills," Fishlegs stuttered. "Someone _meant_ for you guys to go on this trip and find the Riders and—but what does that mean?"

"_It's close to home,"_ Stiles repeated, and Lydia gave a small gasp of understanding. "The next Rider is in _Beacon Hills."_

"Oh," Scott said softly.

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. "Oh."

"So are we gonna go blow something up now?" Tuffnut asked plaintively, seemingly not realizing his sister was trying to stab him with a plastic fork she'd procured.

"No," Stiles said. His stomach gave a large growl, and he winced slightly. "We're gonna introduce you two to the magic that is American food," he said, walking towards the twins and directing them to the door.

"Sweet!" Tuffnut yelled. "Roasted mutton!"

"Uh, not exactly." Stiles grinned.

"It is so weird seeing you talk to thin air, dude." Scott called to Stiles.

"I know!" Stiles winked.

* * *

"Okay, so we need to get back to California." Scott said. "When can we leave?"

"I'm working on it!" Lydia snapped, leaning against a lamppost as she typed furiously. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw Fishlegs buying hotdogs from a street cart and passing several to the twins. Stiles's stomach growled again, letting him know that he'd had very little to eat this entire trip—basically the snack bars his dad packed him and bottled water Lydia had bought upon landing in Greenland. The still unconscious Snotlout was lying like a hobo on a nearby bench under Scott's watchful eye.

Lydia let out a little growl of frustration, still typing at a speed that Stiles envied.

"Calm down, Lydia." Scott told her softly. "You don't need to stress out trying to get us home."

"Our town is being attacked by mythical creatures, we're seeking help from thousand year old psychotic Vikings, and I'm not supposed to stress out?" Lydia glowered.

Scott held up his hands defensively. "I didn't mean—"

Lydia sighed, cutting him off. "I know you didn't mean," she said wearily, "but I just—I want to get home, I want those dragons as far away as possible and I just want to some rest. We haven't had much time to breathe since the Nogitsune—" she cut herself off, half glancing at Stiles.

Stiles found the nearby buildings very interesting suddenly.

He began edging away from the conversation towards the twins—if nothing else, they could distract him from his thoughts.

* * *

"So, what are these?" Ruffnut was asking Fishlegs as the trio wandered towards Stiles and away from the very relieved hotdog man.

"Meat." Fishlegs told them delicately. "Just try it."

The twins looked at one another, shrugged as one, and bit into the hotdog in sync.

"Do they practise that?" Stiles asked Fishlegs, watching the twins chew—in sync. It was very odd.

"I have no idea." Fishlegs replied. "I wouldn't be surprised if they did or didn't."

"What was it like on their poor parents?" Stiles mused.

Fishlegs laughed awkwardly. "Their parents eventually just built another house for them and kind of . . . uh, kept them like really annoying yak. The twins didn't seem to notice."

"This is AWESOME!" Tuffnut yelled, punching the air with his fist. He crammed the rest of his hotdog into his mouth and tried to chew, but couldn't. So Stiles and Fishlegs were treated to half-ground up meat and the bread (a bit of mustard dribbled down his chin, and Tuff rubbed it off with the back of his hand).

People were staring at the hotdog that had mysteriously disappeared into the air.

"Yeah," Ruffnut agreed, though she, at least, refrained from shoving the whole hotdog in her mouth. "Pretty good."

"Migmah, orrumph!" Tuffnut agreed.

"You said it!" Ruffnut cackled, taking a large bite out of her meal.

"Did she actually understand what he said, or was she just agreeing?" Stiles asked—the fact that he felt the _need_ to ask was way more than he wanted to handle.

"Well, they can speak fluent post-lightning bolt victim, so I don't know." Fishlegs shrugged. "Maybe. It wouldn't surprise me."

"They can _what?"_

"Snotlout was hit by lightning—I believe the final count before he died was fifty-two times. Tuffnut had learned to speak that when the number was at twelve when we were sixteen."

"How the hell did you all live for so long?" Stiles asked, horrified.

Fishlegs grinned. "We're Vikings," he said proudly.

He left Stiles standing their gob smack, and Stiles could swear he heard the blonde chuckle as he left.

They were insane.

* * *

The flight to Beacon Hills was done quietly—mostly because Lydia managed to locate sedatives, and so the twins spent the flying snoozing.

Stiles and Lydia managed to forge passports for the twins and Snotlout and while they got Snotlout through security (which was _such_ a hassle) the twins were invisible and simply walked through.

Stiles had covered up the twins with a blanket and placed large blonde wigs that he (maybe sort-of illegally) had found so that both twins looked like they were wrapped in a burrito with bird's nest hair.

"They have Aviophobia," Stiles told the ticket inspector as they walked past. "It's very bad,"

"And—and this one?" She asked, apprehensively looking at Snotlout, who was being supported by Fishlegs.

"Narcolepsy," Stiles said cheerfully. "He'll wake up soon enough."

"Your friends have problems," the ticket inspector told him.

"Oh, I know." Stiles said. "_All the problems."_

And one point in time from New York to Sacramento (the earliest flight available) Tuffnut woke up.

"Whoa," Stiles heard and looked over to see the blonde boy looking out the window. Stiles was sitting with Tuffnut and Ruffnut—Ruffnut was squished between the two boys—while the rest of the group was scattered around the plane; Lydia and Snotlout were near the front, Scott was behind Stiles and across the aisle and Fishlegs was at the very back, looking quite uncomfortable next to an arguing couple.

"What?" Stiles asked Tuffnut.

"We're so high up."

"Um, yeah." Stiles said. "We're thousands of feet up—" he remembered that the twins really _couldn't_ count higher than nine. "Um, we're really high up. Haven't you been this high up before? With the dragons and all?"

"Yeah," Tuffnut said. "But that was when we were _outside._"

"Right," Stiles said. _Of course,_ he thought, _being inside and high up is different from being on a dragon's back. What was I thinking?_

"Would it be bad if I shoved Ruffnut outside?" Tuffnut asked conversationally.

_Yeah, no, we're veering into weird again,_ Stiles thought before he reached over and tapped Tuffnut's shoulder.

"No," he said sternly.

Tuffnut visibly wilted. "It'd be funny." He protested.

"You've been dead for a thousand years already!" Stiles hissed.

"Yeah, together apparently. I can't get away from my stupid sister even in death." Tuffnut grumped.

"Will you just be quiet?" Stiles asked. "You break anything on this place and it could kill everyone on this plane!"

"Really?" Oh for the love of—Tuffnut was treating this like it was a viable option.

"Really," Stiles said sarcastically. "But you wouldn't be strong enough to break anything—here, eat this and you will be." He offered Tuffnut a small pill. Tuffnut took it gleefully.

What a sucker.

"Alright!" He crowed before his eyes rolled back and he slouched against the window.

Stiles sighed in relief.

"Stiles," Scott said, and Stiles looked over to see his bud grinning.

"No," Stiles said. "Don't say anything. These two are menaces. We were never, _ever_ this bad."

Scott held up his hands in mock-surrender, still grinning. "Okay," he said. "Fine. Let's talk about the clue."

"What about it?" Stiles muttered, irritably poking at a hole in his jeans.

"Where would we go to find a place that holds only bad with cogs and stuff made of tin?" Scott asked. The person in the other row next to Stiles (in front of Scott) had their headphones on and were apparently sleeping. Stiles took that as a sign they could talk without being snapped at.

"I don't know." Stiles said, still feeling miffed. "Let's talk with the pack and figure it out _then._ We've been going nonstop for a week with barely any sleep or food. I just want to get to Beacon Hills and see my dad and the pack and go from there."

Scott's eyes softened. "Are you okay?" He asked softly.

Scott and Stiles leaned back into their seats as an attendant strolled past them with a cart, offering drinks and snacks and smiles. When she was gone they leaned closer again.

Scott let Stiles collect his thoughts for a moment.

Stiles couldn't on principle tell his dad everything—a dude has privacy needs after all—and he didn't trust the pack as much as he trusted Scott. Scott was the only one he could actually trust with how he was doing, because even though they'd both been insanely busy with the supernatural and girlfriends and guerrilla wars they'd been fighting, Scott was still there when it counted.

Well, he was now. In the beginning when Stiles was getting beaten up by creepy grandpas? Not so much. But, well, past is past. Moving on.

Stiles would always trust Scott. "I'm tired." Stiles said finally. "And that scares me, Scott. But I'm doing good. I've got—I've got something to do, a goal that isn't focused on me personally. It's good. I'm . . . I'm doing okay."

Scott sighed softly. "You've been less sarcastic lately. " He said. "And quieter. Is it just because you're recovering, or is something else going on?"

Stiles shook his head. "Just recovering." He said. "The Nog—Void. Dark me. Evil fox. Whatever. He, uh, _liked_ my humor and he used it and it feels tainted . . ."

"It's not." Scott said.

"Logically I know that," Stiles ducked his head slightly, unable to look at Scott in the face. "But emotionally—I just feel violated, Scott, in every way, and Allison . . ."

He trailed off, glancing up to see an answering flash of guilt in Scott's eyes.

"You were split into two people, Stiles." Scott said. "You had absolutely _nothing_ to do with that."

"I keep telling myself that." Stiles said. "It's not making it easier."

They both leaned back again as the attendant rolled her cart back down the aisle, going to opposite direction this time.

"Stiles, I'm just worried." Scott said. "You've been through a lot lately."

"So've you," Stiles argued.

Scott shook his head. "Not as much as you," he said. "I just . . . Stiles, I just want you to be okay."

"I'm not going to be okay for a long time." Stiles said. "It's too fresh right now, and we barely got a break before the dragons attacked. It's been one thing after another, Scott, and I feel like I'm drowning."

"Yeah," Scott said. "Just . . . if it gets too much, you let me know."

Stiles wouldn't. Scott knew that.

But he'd be watching Stiles for the signs that Stiles was cracking.

And that—that was why Scott was a Good Friend.


	11. Chapter 11: Tick Tock

Chapter 10: Tick Tock

"So how do we get in?" Fishlegs asked.

They were at the town limits after having bused most of the way when their second planed from Sacramento to the nearest town landed. Now the twins were arguing about some random inconsequential thing while Fishlegs and Scott supported Snotlout.

"Deaton told me we had to stand where we left." Stiles said. "Because that guy is so understandable."

"And maybe he just meant to go to the place where we left the town limits," Lydia snapped, rolling her eyes and brushing past them, marching off to the point.

Stiles and Scott looked at each other for a bewildered moment before hurrying to join the Banshee, Fishlegs trying to keep up with the werewolf for the sake of Snotlout (and seriously, this Viking was _such_ a freeloader).

The twins followed, seemingly oblivious to anything outside of their bickering.

The odd group followed Lydia to the point in the woods where they had exited. The woods were eerily silent, without bird call or small, fluffy animal hiding in the bushes.

"Okay, this is creepy." Stiles said.

"Yeah," Fishlegs said, meekly looking around him with large eyes.

"So what now?" Tuffnut demanded, looking around.

"Uh, now we . . ." Scott trailed off, looking in the direction of the invisible town. Stiles looked over and did a double take as a ripple in the air appeared, about seven feet in diameter about five feet from them. Beyond it they could see the smoke from Main Street rising above the trees. Home sweet home.

"Dude, that is so _Portal._" Stiles whispered to Scott, who only nodded.

Without a thought, the seven people dove into the portal and were met with the incredulous face of Chris Argent.

"Uh, hey," Stiles said weakly from where he'd fallen to the ground as they had tumbled through.

"Hi," Argent said (and did this guy have any other modes than 'scary as hell' and 'super freaking intense'?)

"So, we found most of the Dragon Riders," Stiles said, waving his hand in the general direction of Fishlegs, the (still) unconscious Snotlout and the smirking twins.

"I see only two," Argent said. "Pelles, and one who's . . . asleep."

"It's part of the spell, we think." Stiles said helpfully. "There are two others, but they're invisible."

". . . Invisible."

_Damn_ he was good at being skeptical.

"Yeah," Stiles said and turned to face the twins, "Hey!" he called. "Run into Scott!"

"What?" Scott yelped as the twins shrugged like it was no big deal and did just as Stiles had asked. Poor Scott was bowled over and must look . . . really weird judging from Argent's expression.

"Okay, guys, stop." Fishlegs pleaded. The twins rolled off of Scott and continued wrestling between the two of them. Stiles saw Argent's eyes mark the places where the twins were. They were shifting leaves and twigs and generally being really good invisible Vikings.

"And why did you come back without the fifth and sixth?" Argent asked icily after he'd gotten over the twins' invisibleness.

"We think the fifth one is in Beacon Hills," Scott jumped in so that Stiles did not have to bear the burden of Chris Argent alone (because, Stiles will repeat, Scott is a Good Friend).

"Why?"

"The clue from the twins," Lydia said. "'_The clue for the mute is terribly sad, go to a place close to home that holds only bad, bad for the land and for those living within, where the clicking of cogs and wheels chime of tin'"_

"So why do you think the Rider is in Beacon Hills?" Argent asked.

"Because we think we're the ones meant to find the Riders and reunite them." Scott said. "The dragons attacked Beacon Hills out of the blue—after a thousand years of some many other people collecting the prophecies and debating whether or not the Dragon Riders existed, _we_ managed to find them."

"Not to mention the twins couldn't be found until the Statue of Liberty was built," Stiles threw in. "Just, y'know, observation."

"Which could mean anywhere since the Statue was built," Argent said.

"Not necessarily." Lydia said, stepping forwards, "The summoning ritual couldn't have happened until dragons came out—which they did here, in Beacon Hills. So it had to be whichever town had the dragons—and that was us. I think it may be the Destiny spell that Deaton was talking about."

Argent sighed. "What do you think it is?" He asked. "Someplace that holds bad for the land and the people living there, with clicking cogs and wheels most likely made of tin."

"Cogs . . ." Stiles murmured. "Wheels . . ." He glanced at Argent's wrist, where a (very expensive) gold watch rested just under the cuff of his black jacket. "A clock . . ." Stiles said. "It's a clock. They still make clocks with tin parts, right?"

"I think so," Lydia said. "The question is, is there a clock shop in Beacon Hills?"

"Yeah, there is." Scott said. "My dad bought a watch there once before he left."

Stiles clapped his hands together. "Let's go!"

The group started heading out of the reserve, Argent and Fishlegs awkwardly carrying Snotlout this time. The twins slunk through the trees, still talking amongst themselves.

"_They don't always make trouble,"_ Fishlegs had said on the second plane ride. "_They're twins. They fight each other verbally, too."_

Stiles was glad—there were some very sharp sticks littering the ground.

Chris Argent was on his phone as soon as they were moving, calling different people with short, to-the-point calls.

"Deaton is out of his coma." He said after one.

"What coma?" Stiles demanded, swinging around. Argent raised an eyebrow.

"In order to send you over the town limits, Deaton needed to remain unconscious. As soon as you had passed back over, the magic released him," he said this calmly, like magic-induced comas were an everyday no-need-to-get-worried kind of event.

Fishlegs was looking at Argent like he was from another planet. At least he was sane enough to see that. Seriously, Vikings might be _more_ crazy then hunters, but that was a really, _really_ close tie.

They arrived at Deaton's within thirty minutes, to find the pack gathered. As soon as Stiles's dad saw him he caught Stiles up in a tight hug. Stiles returned it, and he realized that he'd _really_ missed his dad. He hadn't left Beacon Hills for prolonged periods of time in two years (the bus ride didn't count—the Darach wanted that to happen).

After the reunion, which they all kept short, they gathered in a crooked circle in the waiting room. Deaton had once again returned behind the counter, watching them all with a critical eye like he'd never been in a coma. Stiles did, however, see that his hands were shaking and he leaned a bit more heavily against the counter than usual. Peter was once again lurking in a corner (seriously, _why_ was he here?) Derek was leaning against the wall with Malia, while most of the others were either sitting on chairs (Deaton had more brought in) or sitting on various and sundry objects.

Someone had washed Fishlegs's clue off of the wall.

"So," Scott said. "We found four of the six Dragon Riders. We think the fifth is in a clock shop in Beacon Hills."

"I only see two." Malia said.

"The other two are invisible." Stiles said.

"Do _not_ ask them to jump me again," Scott warned Stiles.

"Hey, _cool,_" Tuffnut said, brushing past Kira—who squeaked and jumped back—and headed for the potted plant Deaton had on one of his tables. Ruffnut joined him, grinning wickedly.

"I smell them," Isaac muttered, wrinkling his nose. Ha-ha, werewolf suckers.

"Yeah, _now,_ I smell them." Malia said. "Why can't we see them?"

"No idea," Stiles shrugged. "So, clock shops?"

"There are two shops," Ms. McCall said—because awesome moms know everything under the sun apparently—"there's one not far from here and one across town."

"Are there any with 'bad land'?" Lydia asked.

"How do you mean?" Ms. McCall asked.

"We don't know," Stiles admitted. "That's just what the clue said—_'bad for the land and for those living within.'_ We think it might literally mean the land. Is one of the clock shops on, like, radiated land or something?"

Ms. McCall shrugged. "I don't have much use for clocks," she said apologetically. "How about we go to the shops and see?"

It was quickly agreed and decided that Scott, Stiles, Lydia, Isaac and Kira would go to the one across town since Scott and Stiles had vehicles still parked in the vet parking lot.

("Aw," Stiles had cooed when he saw his much-loved Jeep, "Deaton likes us enough to keep our cars from being towed!" Scott had rolled his eyes and swung on his bike with Kira.)

Argent, Derek, Malia, Peter and Stiles's dad were going to the nearby one.

Ms. McCall and Deaton were on Dragon Rider duty.

Stiles swore he heard Ruffnut and Tuffnut cackle as they left.

* * *

When Lydia saw the clock shop, she knew they'd come to the right place. This was the slums of Beacon Hills—_not_ a place Lydia would ever willingly visit. The bricks were crumbled and faded, the windows dark. This place had not been touched by the dragons, yet, and so she assumed the people were still living here.

But what caught her eyes were the plants—or lack thereof. There was one tree, and its leaves were bare though it was the middle of summer. There were a few patches of dead grass that blotted the soil, but it was so dry that it had surpassed brown and moved to grey.

"We're here," Stiles said next to her at the driver's seat. Lydia shot off a text to Derek and got out with the others.

They stood in front of the store for a moment before Scott strode forwards and tried the door. It was locked. He knocked.

No answer.

"Okay," Kira said. "Do we just—"

Isaac stepped forwards and broke the door, kicking it down. He looked back nonchalantly. "Shall we?"

Kira blinked at the sudden motion before following with Scott. Lydia glanced over to Stiles, who was gaping. He shook his head for a moment before hurrying forwards. Lydia repressed a smile before joining the rest.

Her phone buzzed. _On our way,_ she read, _ETA 10 minutes._

_Good,_ she thought.

Inside was dark and slightly dusty. There were clocks _everywhere. _It looked more like an antique shop than an actual shop. There were grandfather clocks, anniversary clocks, regulator clocks, iambour clocks, carriage clocks, bracket clocks, cuckoo clocks, water clocks, sun dials, alarm clocks—digital, analog, braille clocks, mechanical, electrical, atomic, radio . . . and that was just what was in the front room. Lydia spied an entryway to what looked like another room beyond all the clocks.

"Uh, wow." Stiles said. "This is a serious amount of clocks."

"Yeah," Kira said. "I really kind of want that cuckoo clock," she nodded to a clock that looked like a remake of Buckingham Palace, with elegant dancers moving around in time to the _ticks_.

"Shop later," Scott said. "We need to find a room of tin."

They split up—Lydia and Stiles went to the room beyond this one with Scott while Kira and Isaac snooped around the front room.

"Look," Lydia said in a hushed voice—it felt odd to be talking normally in this store. She had spotted a staircase that led up.

"I'll go," Scott told them quietly.

"No, stay," she insisted. "That way you're in the middle, and you can help either of us if we get into trouble. Stiles and I can deal with it."

Scott didn't look happy, but he didn't stop them as they wound their way to the bottom of the staircase and began heading up.

They did their best to be silent, but the staircase creaked and groaned under their weight. Lydia and Stiles winced and grimaced at each noise. Lydia's hands were gripped tight around the railing.

When they made it up, they peered over the banister and down at Scott, who was looking worried. They smiled tightly to let him know they were okay before turning and facing the door.

It was open when they tried the knob, and Stiles headed in first with a cocky grin that wasn't quite up to his standards. Lydia was relieved to see it at all.

Inside was fairly large room—it looked to be the front half of the shop, which was about twenty feet by thirty feet at a glance.

There was a bed in one corner. It was made of black iron, and looked more like a prison bed than an actual bed. The mattress was thing and the sheets were yellowed with filth and bunched in a corner. There was a dresser in one corner with crooked drawers. A small door was closed, and Lydia assumed it led to a bathroom. A clothesline hung from the rafters to their left and a small rug lay at their feet.

But what really caught their eyes were the clocks.

They were _all_ made of tin. There were wall clocks, there were desk clocks on the dresser, there were clocks lined up along the wall.

And they were made of tin.

Lydia and Stiles turned to call out to Scott and Isaac and Kira when the door behind them swung shut and the room suddenly went dark.

"Well, well, well." A voice murmured in their ear. "What have we here?"

Lydia fell into darkness.

* * *

When Lydia came to, she was in the bathroom.

She wrinkled her nose—this place was _disgusting._ The floor smelled of vomit, the sink was streaked with dirt and grime and toothpaste, the bathtub was ringed with rust and grit and—Lydia didn't even _want_ to examine the toilet.

Stiles was there, still unconscious. But they weren't alone.

There was a girl with them. She has long, unkempt sinking blonde hair and sad blue eyes. Her arms were muscular, but her cheeks were hallowed and her eyes sunken. She wore a blue tank top and a red skirt that was of modest length. Her shoulders trembled as she fought to keep her upright position. She looked starved, like her life was withering away before her.

Lydia and Stiles were against the bathtub, squished in the corner between the wall and the side of the tub. The door was to Lydia's left. The girl was sitting with her back against the sink pipes, her knee knocking against the—_really, really disgusting—_toilet. She didn't seem to notice the stench. Her bare feet were filthy and her legs were littered with small cuts.

"Hello?" Lydia tried, looking at the girl. The girl jerked and looked at Lydia like she wasn't sure if Lydia was talking to her or not.

"Are you one of the Dragon Riders?" Lydia tried, scooching forwards—only to be stopped. Her hands had fallen asleep chained at her sides to a metal pole exposed from the wall.

The girl nodded slowly, looking at Lydia with eyes so full of distrust Lydia withered slightly.

"We've collected four of you," Lydia whispered. "Fishlegs, Ruffnut, Tuffnut and Snotlout."

The girl jerked again, her eyes falling half closed, and she bent her head to her chest for a moment. Lydia gave her the time she needed, waiting. This girl was so different from the others. Fishlegs held himself with confidence, Snotlout—well, he was unconscious, but Lydia guessed he was rude and brash from how Fishlegs described him. The twins were driving Stiles mad.

This girl just . . .

"What is it?" Lydia murmured. "The . . . thing keeping us here."

The girl looked up and crunched her face into a thoughtful expression.

"Can you—can you talk?" Lydia asked hesitantly. The girl shook her head.

"I'm sorry," Lydia said. The girl glared at her with a ferocity that astounded Lydia. "How about you just mime it, okay?"

The girl's glare lessened and she went back to looking thoughtful. After a moment she tugged her arm around her body with difficulty. She put her elbow in front of her mouth, lowered it barely and hissed at Lydia.

Lydia had seen enough classic movies to get that cliché. "Vampire?" She asked, voice a little high with disbelief.

But, well, she hung out with werewolves.

The girl tilted her hand in a _sort of_ motion. She bared her neck, waited until Lydia's eyes were on her and slowly shook her head.

"A vampire that doesn't . . . drink blood?" Lydia wondered.

The girl nodded vigorously.

"Then what does he drink?" Lydia asked.

The girl looked thoughtful again. Slowly, in the dust of the sink, she drew an eternity sign.

"He wants eternity?" Lydia asked.

The girl blinked, tilting her hand again. "Immortality?" Lydia asked. The girl rolled her eyes impatiently.

"I don't know, okay?" Lydia snapped. "I'm _trying._" The girl blinked again and gave Lydia a small smile.

"Just, let me think, okay?" Lydia asked.

The girl nodded and closed her eyes, leaning against the sink near the toilet—Lydia shuddered at the sight of the toilet.

She wished Stiles were awake. He'd be able to help her. He was the problem solver; she was the background knowledge holder. They worked well together. But he was still unconscious, and when she poked him he didn't even stir.

"Eternity," she murmured softly to herself. "'_One trapped in life, unable to speak of home.'"_ Trapped in life.

In _life._

"He's feeding off of your life force, isn't he?" Lydia asked.

Without opening her eyes, the girl nodded.

"Oh god," Lydia said. "He's a Psychic Vampire." She had read about them in the Argent's Bestiary, about how they would drain the life-force of their victims instead of blood.

They were rare, the book had said, but _extremely_ dangerous.

"But how are you still alive?" Lydia asked, looking at the girl in aghast ("_Astrid,"_ Fishlegs's voice supplied her).

The girl—_Astrid—_tapped the eternity symbol again.

_Trapped in life._ The eternity symbol. The Psychic Vampire.

Lydia felt sick.

"It's feeding off of your immortal life." She whispered.

Astrid nodded again.


	12. Chapter 12:The Mute

Chapter 11: The Mute

**A/N: Warnings for . . . well, general bad stuff. This chapter is more character background—Astrid's background—than plot. FYI—she has not had a pleasant life.**

* * *

Astrid woke up in 1092 in Prague, Bohemia. She had no idea what had happened—last thing she remembered was the agony of dying, of the pain in seeing Hiccup screaming in horror but unable to respond.

She wandered the streets, dazed and confused, and tried to find help. To her horror, she found she was unable to talk—her voice was gone. She tried shouting, tried whispering, tried begging. But the only thing she heard was her ragged breathing.

A kind woman passed her a cup of water and a chunk of bread and allowed her to sleep the night, but Astrid did not want to intrude on the woman's hospitality.

After poking around and finally finding some people who spoke something similar to her language, she discovered that years had passed since the Great Dragon Wars. Her home, her people—it was all gone. The Age of the Vikings had ended.

She learned that she had had much more freedom as a female on Berk than in other places. The archipelago where she was from was isolated and distant, their only true means of news from other places from Trader Johann or the few Vikings (like Hiccup) who would actually meet with the locals of distant lands. Since they were so cut off from other people, the archipelago had developed and matured its own customs—customs where woman could not afford to stay at home when the dragons attacked. Woman would were valued for their minds as much as their bodies and were equal to men in many different ways.

That was not so in Europe.

She learned the common language. She had no choice. She wrote her demands and her advice and her thoughts on paper, she learned how to get her meaning across one way or the other.

She stopped being female.

She fought to earn a reputation—a reputation as a boy who, though mute, was a fighter of great skill. She hired herself out; as a bodyguard, as a mercenary, as an assassin, if need be. She hid her culture, her gender and her very self under layers of violence. When she rested between battles, her thoughts turned to Hiccup.

She would survive for him. She would survive so she could beat him into a bloody pulp before hugging him and never letting go.

Eleven years passed before she realized that she wasn't getting older, and her clients were talking.

She staged her death and fled to Cork, Ireland—a Viking town. She felt uncomfortable, but knew the language and writing better than the Czech language. She asked about Berk, about the dragons, about anything from her culture—for Vikings were done and gone and her culture was dissipating into the resentful mumbling of those some of her people had attacked.

She was told Berk was a fictional place infested with dragons. She went sailing to the well-remembered spot, but could find no trace of it. When she returned she asked after the dragons.

"What dragons?" was the general reply.

'The ones that lived here for time out of mind.' She responded.

"Dragons are fantasy, sir. They don't exist."

She stopped asking after a while when even Eel Island was barren of anything but the blood red eels.

She began to hire herself out again, working where she could.

She would disappear or stage her death every ten years to dispel suspicion of her stagnate age. She still looked twenty—she still looked young. Always young.

She began avoid mirrors.

She missed her friends. She saw Fishlegs, once, in a town in Thetford, England. She did not approach—though her friend's face was clear in her mind, she had no idea if the same curse lay upon him. She followed his footsteps, seeing he was only twenty-five—older than her where once he was younger.

He died two days later when a rouge horse trampled him.

Astrid stayed away from England for a few centuries after that.

She tried Christianity, since the religion was taking over. She couldn't stand it; too stifling, too ridged, and she couldn't stand the pitying, sympathetic looks well-doers would give her. She gave up on religion after she saw how the Jews were treated and the Islamic forces spreading across the Middle East. She respected them, but couldn't quite turn her back on her true religion of feasts and mighty gods and goddesses, of daring stories and ancient magic.

She found out that every century her memories would bury themselves. Though she could recall what had happened to her in the previous century, it was difficult and time-wasting and she usually had a massive headache. She learned to live in the moment. She was thankful for the dulled memories; she was sure she would have gone insane a long time ago without that reprieve. The only thing that remained clear even after centuries of buried memories was her life on Berk, of the dragons that had all but been reduced to fairy tales.

She wondered what had happened to them. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that Hiccup had been involved.

She loved him still, yet couldn't help but hate him for whatever had happened to her. She figured it was one of his hair-brained ideas, where he hadn't thought it all out. She loved him for those plans, but she wished he had taken the time to understand the consequences.

But she doubted, deep in her heart, that even Hiccup couldn't have guessed that this would have happened to her.

'I love you,' she mouthed sometimes when she looked to the sky.

She still meant it.

In 1356 she was infected by the Black Death. For seven years her body tried to die, tried to give up, but whatever curse lay upon her refused to let go. She starved as people took one look at her pulsing black boils and ran.

By 1363 her body had healed itself and she escaped to the Byzantine Empire and stayed until it was replaced by the Ottomans. She continued hiring herself out, and spent that century wandering along the Silk Road, trading her physical services for food and the occasional coin. She saw lands that Hiccup had once told her of, though she herself had never seen them. People dressed in silk, people making incredible pottery. The differences between her own culture and theirs were amazing. She wandered along the Road for many decades.

She hadn't been female for two centuries by then.

Every ten years she'd pick a new name and wore it like a banner.

She was cunning. She was vicious. If anyone did find out she was a girl, no one said a thing—they were too scared. Those that did find out and let their tongues waggle did not live to see the sunrise—or found themselves as silent as her if she was feeling generous.

She forgot what it was like to speak.

She met up with a group of traveling Jews in Persia and stayed with them for five years. They were good to her, and in return she protected them from vagabonds and thieves. She left them after they discovered her gender and continued on her own.

In 1562 she returned to France with tales and goods to trade. She accumulated much wealth and stole back up to the far North where the cold welcomed her like home and buried her wealth like Hamish the Second in a remote isle that no one cared for.

She marked it as her own and filled it full of traps to dissuade any potential thief.

She missed flying.

She stayed in the north for many years before finally tearing herself away and heading down to the south. She dared to enter England again and began to work as a guard for a lord. She left ten years later.

This was how she spent the next two centuries, until, in 1771; she boarded a ship bound for the American colonies. There was an entire new world to explore there. She hadn't gone in the past centuries because of her loyalty to the northern isle, but with so many years of no news her itch to travel had built inside of her squished and cramped breasts until she went.

She journeyed up and down the east coast until the Revolutionary War broke out. She did not fight—she had no loyalty to either side and no monetary incentive. She went west.

She met the Natives and learned some of their culture, telling bits of her own culture. She had no interest in land, and was often allowed to continue heading west. She avoided those that wanted to fight her; she had no interest in fighting these people. When she reached the sea, she tried to picture what could be out there.

If she had had her dragon, she would know.

Stormfly.

She savored that name, just as she savored Hiccup's. Just as she savored Toothless's. Just as she savored Fishlegs's, Meatlug's, Ruff and Tuff's, Barf and Belch's, Hookfang's and even Snotlout's (if she was feeling particularly homesick, though it was rare). She missed Berk, missed her parents, missed Gobber. Missed Valka and Stoick.

She wanted to go home.

She made her way back east and went to France again in 1835. She couldn't stand seeing so much new land without Hiccup.

She often wondered how his face would look at so much undiscovered land.

She had been to the east coast with Hiccup and the others once, but that had been a very, very long time ago.

_Vikings are still exploring_, she thought bitterly as her ship dipped across the waves. _Even though only one is left._

She went to the Russian Empire next. She'd been there before when Berk still existed. It had been known as Khazar Khaganate and the people called the Rus' inhabited it. She'd met a Varangian once—a Norseman who'd traveled to the hostile land. She and the Dragon Riders had gone there once to save a nest of Dragons that were under siege from the Mongols.

Once she was hired to steal from a wealthy lord. The object she was sent to steal was a locket—a locket was a small dragon engraved on it. When Astrid had nabbed it and peered at it in the faded light, she was amazed to see a dragon—a proper dragon. It looked like . . . like Toothless.

She skipped town without her payment, taking the locket with her. She found a small time magic user who charmed the locket around her neck. It could only be removed with her consent.

She moved on.

She stayed in the Russian Empire for a decade more before heading back down to Europe. In 1912 she decided to go back to the states and boarded the fastest ship there was—the Titanic. She allowed herself to be female for once, since then she would get a bit more service from the male staff. She dug into some of the money she'd earned in Russia and other nations and got a second class room. When they started moving, Astrid stayed below, unable to face such ridiculous festivities. It was only a boat. It wasn't as fast as some of the boats in the Regatta, but for a European ship it wasn't bad.

Then it sank.

_Typical luck_, Astrid thought as people dashed around in a panic. _Of course I pick the sinking ship_.

She was shoved on a lifeboat with screaming children and panicking mothers and crying old people. She fished some people out of the water and helped row the boats until they were picked up by the Carpathia.

She made it to the states and stayed there for a while.

The colonies that had fought and won their freedom had spread out like a disease in the century that she'd been gone. She was amazed at the progress and delighted by the inventions, though the destruction of the land and the peoples she'd spoken to and traveled with saddened her. She stayed until 1929—the Great Depression.

She went south.

She stayed in the Southern Americas and the surrounding islands, learning the languages down there and learning the cultures. She still could not speak, but no longer missed it. Berk was a distant (though still clear) memory, and sometimes it felt more like a dream or a tale than her actual life's story.

She headed back north in 1938 where whisperings of a war spread throughout the nation. She could care less about the war, but when she heard who was being targeted she felt a stirring for pity. She remembered her time in Persia—the Jewish travelers were kind to her.

She enlisted.

She did it through blackmail and threats, and passed as a boy to the eye. No one caught her—she'd had centuries of practise being a man.

She was found out, however, by a fellow soldier who reported her when she'd taken a bullet to the shoulder and dug it out herself in the woods behind the encampment. She left before they got her. She went to Bulgaria and helped the underground movement to get the Jewish people out. She traveled from country to country defending those who could not defend themselves.

She was a Viking from a long forgotten age—her people were thought of as barbarians, as murderers, as cutthroats.

She was a Viking in a New World, where her people's legacy had been all but forgotten, their hardships and pride all but unknown.

She was a Viking in a Modern Age, where things like Dragons were dismissed as fantasy.

She was a Viking, and all alone. Her people were lost to time, and she alone remained. They were thought to be mindless killers, and her people were not even around to defend themselves.

She was a Viking—but she still had her honor.

She waited until the war was done and stayed in the familiar Scandinavian countries for a time. She left for the states in 1968 and stayed there. When the Woman's Rights Movement happened, she joined that. She immersed herself in the budding American culture of science, music and newfound freedom. She went to school. She learned more than she'd ever even realized existed in her world. She felt . . . free.

She settled down a bit more permanently in New York City. Learned to do make-up to age herself alongside the mortal humans. She collected Viking and Dragon objects—axes and swords and necklaces and books. She didn't need any of it—most of it was wrong—but it made her feel closer to home.

In 2001 she was captured by the vampire. It was nine years after her mind buried her memories after the beginning of her century. She fought and fought and fought to get free, but it was too strong even for her.

She wanted Hiccup. She wanted Toothless. She wanted Stormfly.

Nobody came.

She'd never felt so alone. Her days had gone from brightness, full of learning and hope and the freedom to study whatever she wanted.

She lost track of time, her centuries of living a far distant memory not even worth remembering. She worked out. She fought to keep her hard-earned strength and fighting abilities. The vampire hardly cared; she couldn't beat it, anyways.

She poured her hate and her frustration into her body, pushing it to its limits and becoming stronger for it. She would get out one day, she promised herself.

She was eternal.

"Are you one of the Dragon Riders?" The girl with the limp strawberry blonde hair was whispering that to her in the dim light. Astrid blinked and nodded slowly. "We've collected four of you," the girl continued, and Astrid hardly dared allowed herself to hope, "Fishlegs, Ruffnut, Tuffnut and Snotlout."

Astrid bent her head.

Soon she would be free.

* * *

**Now then: So this is the chapter that really started it all. I love Astrid, don't get me wrong, but I also like whumping people. So this chapter is the reason this story happened. Hope you liked it?**

**If you notice any historical inaccuracies, please let me know!**

**I've actually figured out the timeline this all takes place in. I'm only posting it now so that you get a better understanding of what Astrid is going through. Here we go:**

**In the very first movie, Hiccup told us that his village had been there for seven generations. One generation is roughly 30 years. So his tribe has been living on Berk for 210 years. Vikings have roughly been around since 790, and to make it even I made it 786. So 786 + 210 = 1,000. So at the time of the first movie, Hiccup is 15. I wanted the movie to take place in the year 1000, so Hiccup (and co.) was born in 985. The Great Disappearance started around the year 1040 and finished in 1050. The Call also sounded in 1050. So there were no more dragons in 1050, and Astrid's story begins a few decades after that event. Hope that helps!**


	13. Chapter 13: Thank Goodness for Plumbing

Chapter 12: Thank Goodness for Plumbing

"Stiles!" Lydia snapped, elbowing Stiles's head into the bathtub rim.

Stiles started, yelping slightly.

"What was that for?" He demanded, awkwardly rubbing his head into his shoulder. "Where are we?"

"A Psychic Vampire's bathroom." Lydia said. "We also found another Dragon Rider."

"Yay," Stiles groaned. Then he blinked. "Did you just say _Psychic Vampire?"_

"Yes," Lydia said. "Apparently they drain life-force, and Astrid is immortal."

"Astrid?" Stiles looked around. Astrid was looking incredibly unimpressed. "She the fifth Dragon Rider?"

"Yes," Lydia sighed. "Fishlegs talked about her, remember?"

"Right . . ." Stiles drawled. "Hi, Astrid."

Astrid nodded slightly.

"She can't talk." Lydia said.

"That _sucks,"_ Stiles said. Astrid rolled her eyes and looked at Lydia questioningly.

"What is it?" Lydia asked.

Astrid hefted herself up, leaning heavily against the sink. Lydia grimaced—the filth would be getting into her hair and that was just _gross._ Astrid slid her hands underneath her butt and rested them under her bent knees. She grunted and managed to get her hands in Lydia's line of sight.

"Ok," Lydia said. Astrid started signing and Lydia did her best to keep track of it—she'd only dabbled in Sing Language, preferring to study other spoken languages.

"You . . . want to know what year it is?" She guessed. Astrid nodded.

"2012," Lydia murmured. "August 2012."

Astrid's face scrunched and Lydia pinned this one as frustration and anger.

"How long have you been here?" Stiles asked cautiously.

Astrid held up one finger. She paused, took that finger down and put it up again.

"Eleven years?" Lydia asked. Astrid nodded.

"Damn," Stiles said. "That _sucks._ This place is _horrible._"

Astrid shrugged and slid her arms back under her but and settled herself down again. She waited for a few moments before groaning and lifting herself back up, taking her hands down to the crook of her knees again.

She started signing again, and both Lydia and Stiles did their best to follow.

"You want to know . . . why . . . I'm guessing you mean Dragon Riders, right?" A nod, "were . . . brought . . . here."

Astrid nodded.

"Dragons are attacking Beacon Hills," Stiles said, "that's where we are now, if you didn't know." Astrid shook her head. "Anyway, we have this Druid who told us about the Dragon Riders and so we decided to give it a try—we didn't have anything else to do. We had no idea how to get fight the dragons."

Astrid's hands danced as she looked intensely at them.

"What . . . kind?" Lydia read.

"Fishlegs called them a Monstrous Nightmare, a Changewing and a Skrill."

Astrid's face paled and she slowly sank to the ground again.

"Yeah, that's the general response." Stiles said. "Anyway, we're trying to find the Dragon Master and convince him to help us. We summoned Fishlegs, then went to Greenland to get Snotlout—who's been unconscious this entire time—" Astrid shook with silent laughter, a spark appearing in her dull blue eyes, "And the twins in New Jersey."

Astrid blinked and looked questioningly at them.

"They we little carved things in a stone tile." Stiles said. "They're insane."

Astrid nodded, smiling smugly.

"I have no idea how you guys survived with them." Stiles said. "They are _annoying_ and _insane._"

Astrid's smug smile grew slightly.

"No," Stiles said, "this is _not_ okay—"

"_Anyway,"_ Lydia said. "You're the fifth out of six."

Astrid nodded slowly.

"There are clues." Stiles said, looking around the small room. "In . . . in riddles."

Lydia joined him in searching, both craning their necks under Astrid's bemused gaze.

"There!" Stiles suddenly said. "Look, in the mirror grime!"

Lydia looked, and saw the familiar Norse runes scrawled in the mucky mirror.

"_The last clue you'll need lies with the heart,"_ She read softly. Both Stiles and Astrid strained towards her, listening intently.

"_For two lovers who have long been apart,_

_A symbol of love, not for them but for you_

_Is all you'll need for the final clue."_

Astrid sighed softly and fumbled with her fingers behind her back. Her head tilted downwards, sighing. She seemed deep in thought and Lydia and Stiles looked at each other.

Okay, this one they _really_ had no clue.

"We'll deal with it later." Stiles decided. "Right now, let's focus on the vampire, okay?"

"Okay," Lydia said. "I read about them in the Argent Bestiary."

"And did it say anything about how to kill it?" Stiles asked hopefully.

"Yeah," Lydia said absentmindedly, trying to think of everything the book had on vampires. "Poppy seeds."

"What?" Stiles asked, taken aback.

"Poppy seeds," Lydia repeated more strongly. "Sprinkle them on top of the vampire and it'll kind of wither away. It's either that or find their weakness, their anchor—but I don't know how we can do that."

"How do people think of these things?" Stiles asked. "Like, do they just say 'I'm gonna go get me some vampire and sprinkle a ton of different stuff on it to see what works.'"

Lydia shrugged. "I don't know. I'd assume people figured it out after centuries of attempts."

Astrid nodded and her bare feet scraped across the floor.

"Well," Stiles said. "That's just perfect. I'm so glad I bring poppy seeds with me where ever I go. You never do know when a Psychic vampire with a hostage Dragon Rider will pop into your life."

"Shut up," Lydia muttered. "Why hasn't Scott broken in, yet? Why hasn't the pack come? I texted Derek and he said they'd be here in ten minutes. Surely we've been here longer."

Astrid nodded and lifted herself up again. Lydia and Stiles watched her hand flicker through different motions.

"We've . . . been here . . . for . . . two . . . hours? Hours I think . . . and the . . . vampire I'm guessing . . . has . . . magic . . . and is . . . blocking them . . . Listen."

Lydia and Stiles fell silent for a moment. Astrid sat back down.

Distantly Lydia heard thumps and shouts. It had been easier to dismiss earlier because she hadn't been listening for it. Now she heard it, however, she couldn't miss it.

"They can't get in," Stiles breathed, a note of panic creeping into his voice.

"We're trapped." Lydia said.

* * *

"So we need poppy seeds." Stiles said. "To kill the vampire. Who has us trapped. So we can't get out to get the seeds. Which we need to kill him. Vicious cycle, huh?"

"Thank you for summing that up," Lydia said pointedly. Stiles wilted slightly.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Think they'll figure out that it's a vampire?"

"I find it doubtful." Lydia murmured. "Vampires aren't common."

"Great," Stiles said. "This is just . . . this is just brilliant. So we need a plan."

"We do," Lydia agreed. She twisted around to look behind Stiles and past the bathtub. "There's a window."

"Awesome," Stiles said. "Now we just need to get out of our cuffs."

Astrid tugged at her cuffs and scrunched her face back into the frustrated/angry face.

Lydia and Stiles tugged futilely at their cuffs.

"Okay, so we need to unlock the cuffs." Stiles sighed. "Baby steps, right?"

"Do any of us know how to pick locks?" Lydia demanded.

As one, Stiles and Astrid nodded.

Lydia blinked.

"Don't look at me!" Stiles scooted away from Lydia when she glared at him. "I felt it was my civic duty to my dad to learn how."

"Your dad is _the sheriff,_" Lydia stressed.

"Exactly!" Stiles exclaimed.

Lydia rolled her eyes and looked at Astrid. "I'm guessing ten centuries makes it easy to pick up new skills."

Astrid nodded.

"Okay," Stiles said. "I really can't think of any other way—we need the toilet."

Lydia gagged. "_What?_" She cried.

"There's a chain in there," Stiles explained. "And unless you have a bobby pin or paper clip, I need that chain. I'll also take wire, but it needs to be stiff."

Astrid levered herself up, leaning heavily against the sink as she drew her leg up to the toilet. She managed to move the lid slightly, but even Lydia could see how stiff her movements were—she'd had limited movement for who knows how long.

Astrid managed to draw the lid back enough to reach inside. The stink that wafted out made all of them recoil, but Astrid recovered quickly. Next to Lydia, Stiles struggled slightly, and he was eventually able to push his feet into the lid, knocking it back further. His head was by Lydia's hip, his face twisted into sharp focus.

They stilled for a moment, wondering if the vampire had heard.

There was silence but for the continued shouting and banging from the pack that seemed far away. Stiles slid slowly back into a sitting position next to Lydia.

Astrid huffed and placed her right foot on the toilet seat, pressing her shoulder blades into the sink so that she was suspended above the ground. With her left foot she dipped into the opening. She shuffled around for a little bit, her expression displaying her displeasure as the chain escaped her time and time again—Lydia could hear it clinking around.

Finally Astrid seemed to grasp it in his toes and she brought it up to the side. The chain was caught in between her big toe and her second toe. She grunted again and yanked, her back arching as she forced her leg up.

The chain and the flapper came out and Astrid set it down again so that it was dangling above the pot.

"Okay, see how it's connected to the handle arm?" Stiles asked. "I need the really big loop at the top."

Lydia squinted and saw what he was talking about—connected to the handle arm was a large thin metal loop.

"It is a cheap toilet." Stiles said. "With crappy metal—so it's not thick. Perfect for lock picking, right?"

"You just need to straighten it out." Lydia said.

Stiles didn't answer her, looking intently at Astrid and what she was doing. Her bare foot was glinting with brown sludge water (yuck), and she looked completely revolted. She seemed to be weighing something in her mind, flexing her shoulders slightly and bouncing the leg that she had balanced on the toilet seat.

She looked over at Stiles and signed with her hands.

"You want me to . . . guide you?" Stiles asked. Astrid nodded. "Okay," Stiles said.

If Lydia didn't have a healthy appreciation for the sheer insanity that was the Vikings, she did now. Astrid—her whole body was trembling now, how was she _doing_ this?—scooted her shoulders for a firmer grip on the sink before she took her supporting foot off of the toilet seat and swung it onto the toilet bowl.

She looked like she was doing the bridge as her entire body spanned the gap between the sink and the toilet. Astrid looked at Stiles quickly before bringing her feet together to grasp at the chain.

"Okay," Stiles said and cleared his throat. "Um, so can you break the handle?"

Astrid let go of the chain with her left foot and brought it down sharply on the handle arm. It bent and cracked, but didn't break.

"Try it again," Stiles said, clearly trying to sound encouraging. Lydia bit her lip to stop herself from telling him he really didn't. Astrid whined in the back of her throat and did it again—it broke.

"Yes!" Stiles hissed, his expression jubilant. Astrid brought the whole contraption out with her right foot and tossed it in Stiles's direction without looking. It landed next to her knee. Stiles dragged it over with his foot and began struggling with it, trying to get it around to his hands. Lydia watched as Astrid slowly and carefully got down from the toilet, wincing horribly.

"Thank you so much," Lydia whispered. Astrid looked at her briefly and nodded.

"Got it in my hands," Stiles declared. His eyebrows twitched as he worked his numb hands into doing what he wanted. "Now I just need . . . got it!"

They waited as Stiles wrestled with the thin metal, entering it into the cuffs and prodding it around.

"These are cheap cuffs," he said. "I've practised with police-issued. This should be easy."

"As long as they aren't magical." Lydia said.

Stiles shook his head. "I'm not meeting any resistance yet . . . ha!" With a clatter, his cuffs fell off of his hands. Stiles brought them around, rubbing his wrists to get feeling back into them.

"If you're not too busy," Lydia grumbled.

"Right, sorry," Stiles said, a touch sarcastically. He went to kneel next to her, his hands fumbling slightly with the metal wire.

"Not me," Lydia snapped. "Do Astrid first!"

"Okay, okay, Geeze." Stiles retorted, rounding on Astrid. He picked the lock in under a minute, helping her to her feet. She swayed and grabbed the sink for balance, rubbing her shoulders to sooth the pain. Stiles went to Lydia next and freed her in an even shorter amount of time.

"Okay," he said. "Let's see what's out the window."

"You'd think they'd look for other ways into the store." Lydia said, looking over to the door where the pack was still calling out.

Stiles shrugged. "I have no idea what's happening," he said flatly. "So let's focus on us first, okay?"

Lydia sighed, but nodded her agreement. Stiles stepped into the bathtub and struggled to open the window. Lydia went to Astrid and smiled softly at her. "We're going to get out." She told Astrid. "Just a little bit longer."

She'd meant for her words to be comforting, but Astrid glared ferociously at her.

Lydia looked away. She did not have the energy to deal with Viking drama.

"Here we go," Stiles said, lifting the window so that it was horizontal in it frame. "Can we fit?"

"I think so," Lydia said. "We'd all need a boost."

"You go first," Stiles said. "Okay?"

It was Lydia's turn to glare. "Why?"

"Because . . . because you've got the best chance to get out and get help." Stiles said.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Stiles, if we need _anyone_ it's Astrid. Let her go first."

Astrid crossed her arms and looked mutinously stubborn.

"You're a Dragon Rider," Lydia snarled. "We _need_ you!"

Astrid stayed still.

"Look, we don't have time to argue." Stiles said. "Lydia goes first because out of the two of you, you can talk. Astrid goes next."

"Why are you going last?" Lydia asked harshly.

Stiles threw up his arms. "Because out of the three of us, I'm needed the least!"

"Bullshit!" Lydia growled. "You're the most important person _in_ the pack, Stiles!"

"No, I'm not." Stiles said. "I almost got everyone killed."

_Oh,_ Lydia thought. _That's what this is about._

"That wasn't your fault." She said. "No one blames you, Stiles. But we cannot just wait for the vampire to get in here. I'm immune to the supernatural—I'll go last. Chances are, if a werewolf bite doesn't work, a vampire's attempts to drain my life-force won't."

Stiles looked like he wanted to argue some more, but Astrid had had enough. She marched over and climbed into the tub, crowding Stiles. Before Stiles could do much more than protest, Astrid hoisted him halfway out of the window and into the world outside. Lydia watched as her friend disappeared from view.

Astrid turned and looked at Lydia.

"I'll help you out," Lydia said. "But I'm not going. You're needed, Astrid."

Astrid sighed, but nodded. She reached her hand up and brushed it out of her face. Lydia spied a small silver locket in the shape of a heart around her neck. It startled her; she hadn't pinned Astrid down as the type of person to keep a locket with her. She wondered why the vampire had allowed Astrid to keep it.

Lydia headed over and knitted her fingers together so that Astrid could step on them. The other girl did so and wriggled out the window.

Then Lydia was left alone in the dank and dirty bathroom of a vampire.

"Great," she muttered to herself. She gripped the window sill and jumped a little, trying to get her feet on either edge of the tub. She managed to get a precarious perch on it and wobbled slightly as she tried to lift herself up.

She didn't have the strength and lowered herself carefully into the tub again.

"Okay," she told herself. "There's the riddle on the mirror and a room outside of this one. Let's try to do something productive, okay?" As she exited the tub, she grabbed the broken handle arm and slipped it up her sleeve.

She went to the mirror first and carefully studied and memorized the message left in the Nordic runes.

"A symbol of love for not for them, but for us." She said. "What could that mean?"

She shook her head and listened for the now-familiar pounding of her friends. They were still going at it.

Turning to look at the door, Lydia bit her lip softly and stared at the knob.

"I might as well," she said. "After all, Stiles and Astrid will be coming with the entire pack soon." She gave another glance at the window, but shook her head once. "Can't do," she said. "I'm not strong enough."

She reached out her hand and clasped the knob, turning it silently.

* * *

**So I have no idea how that went. Please give some constructive feedback-I won't tolerate flames. Also, do you know what this means? Hiccup is coming soon! I know you're all probably very excited about it (I know I am) but bare with me! It'll be two more chapters, I think, before Hiccup is finally with us. Thank you all so much for sticking with me and reviewing and reading-it means so much to me. I know this is a weird crossover, but I appreciate you all for giving it a try. I hope I'm doing you all justice-I know my writing still needs some work.**

** Thank you once again!**


	14. Chapter 14: Anchors

Lydia had only cracked the knob, but as she peered into the room, she was glad she hadn't flung it open. The vampire was in the room alright, staring greedily at its front door.

It looked like . . . like a thickset woman. It had a square chin and a broad nose. Its chapped lips had thick, ropey blue veins pushing against the tan skin like worms. Its broad shoulders were squared and its chest was mostly flat. Its arms were as thick as Fishlegs's, and its body was a lumpy mess.

It was, frankly, ugly.

Lydia fought the urge to close the door.

"Come out, little Banshee," the vampire hissed at her without turning to face her. "I know your friends have escaped and left you all alone."

"Not all alone," Lydia managed to say.

The vampire laughed, still facing the door. "Alone," it repeated. "Just as Astrid was alone. Just as I am alone."

"You sucked the life out of her!" Lydia snarled, opening the door wider and standing up stiffly.

"I did indeed," the vampire acknowledged. "I've had no need to eat any other humans. She keeps me well fed. And you," the vampire turned to look at her with black, empty eyes, "you've just taken my all-you-can-eat-buffet."

"She deserves to live her life!" Lydia spat.

The vampire shrugged. "And I deserve to live mine."

"Not at the cost of another's!"

"And what do you think humans do?" the vampire seemed amused. "That's all humans have ever done—lived off one another through slavery or through terror. Even now people half a world away—some within this 'glorious' Nation—work themselves to death to appease other's. I'm only feeding off of one; that's better than what you do. And the one person I live off of . . . why, she doesn't even exist! She's lived for so long she's past her time to die. Am I truly doing anything wrong?"

"Yes," Lydia said stubbornly. "She's _still alive._"

The vampire waved its hand. "Not truly." It dismissed.

Lydia tried to retort, but was unable to come up with a response—she didn't know Astrid, and what she had seen was a broken spirit who, still, was determined to help others. Lydia didn't know how to describe this to a soulless vampire.

"Why didn't you stop us?" Lydia asked instead. "You clearly knew we were leaving."

"I'm about to get what I want." The vampire said. "I won't have to feed for _years._"

Lydia felt a chill run down her spine. "What?"

"An Alpha," the vampire said, relish in its voice. "A True Alpha. With that raw power, I won't have to feed for years—decades, maybe! I can always track my little immortal down later and take her back."

"No," Lydia said. "You can't!"

"No one will miss these people," the vampire said. "Not with the chaos created by the dragons. No one will miss Astrid—she's a nobody."

"I won't let you do this!" Lydia said, terror welling up in her chest.

All she could see was Astrid chained to the sink, blue eyes dark and without hope. How stiff she was—how long she must have been kept in that tiny room without human contact for eleven years.

"Oh, my dear Banshee, what can you do? You're very right; I can't feed off of you. Our magics clash. But I _can_ use you as leverage."

Lydia stepped forwards, closer to the vampire. "I won't let you," she said boldly, though inside she felt like a quivering jelly of terror.

"What can _you_ do to stop me?" the vampire asked. "You aren't _strong_ enough!"

"To climb out of a window maybe!" Lydia said. "But not for this!" And with that she stepped in range and pulled out the handle arm from her sleeve. She stabbed the surprised vampire in the neck—the weakest place she could easily reach.

The vampire howled and flung Lydia back while scratching at the slimy plastic that had sunken into its flesh.

Lydia stumbled back and knocked into the wall. One of the clocks was jostled out of place and Lydia watched as if it were in slow motion as it fell to the floor and crashed to the floor.

"No!" the vampire yelled, seeming to forget the plastic jutting out of its neck. Lydia hurriedly knocked another clock off the wall. The vampire seemed to be in pain as it watched the clock fall and cease its ticking.

"Stop it!" the vampire ignored the golden liquid that seemed to be coming out of its neck. Lydia stepped back in surprise, stepping into a few of the clocks lined up against the floor.

Lydia slithered out of reach, kicking more clocks that were lined against the wall on her way, and swiped her arm across the dresser, knocking all of the clocks off.

"Stop it! That's my Odic force!" the vampire begged.

"Did you stop when Astrid begged?" Lydia snarled.

"That girl never _begged_. She's strong! She's lived for centuries!"

"And you took advantage of her," Lydia said unsympathetically. She threw more wall clocks to the ground. The vampire fell to its knees, its eyes glued to the clocks. It seemed to be losing strength. Lydia knocked more off.

"I expected more of a fight." Lydia said. "Do vampires not have strength?"

"_Magical_ strength." The vampire whispered. "Please. I'm begging you."

Lydia paused next to the last few clocks. "You used people," she said coldly. "My friend was recently used—he thought he was going insane, and in the end another one of our friends was killed. If you were being used, I'd be sympathetic—as it is? I've got none left." With that she knocked the last few clocks off and watched as the vampire screamed, head thrown back.

Golden light erupted from all of the clocks and rushed towards it, engulfing the vampire in a golden mist. Lydia could no longer see the vampire, but heard its screams.

Then the golden light was gone, and all that was left was the clothing the vampire had been wearing.

The bashing, which had been muted during their conversation, came back in full sound, and Lydia winced as the door splintered open and her pack tumbled in.

Stiles and Astrid were at the back of the group, but everyone was there.

"What _happened?_" Stiles stuttered, looking around at the ruined clocks and the empty clothing in the middle of the floor. Lydia saw that his fists were clenched, and his knuckles were dotted with little black seeds—poppy seeds.

Lydia smiled charmingly; deadly.

"I took down the vampire," she said. "It pissed me off."

With that she pushed past them all as they stood in varying degrees of shock and awe and headed down the stairs, more than ready to get into fresh air.

* * *

They returned to Deaton's, Astrid was looking more alert. They had stopped by Sheriff Stilinski's house and had picked up some food. The blonde Viking was looking healthier and more alert than Lydia had seen her, probably due to the combination of fresh air and better food. Lydia honestly couldn't wait to give the Viking maiden a proper meal.

When they parked, Astrid was out like a shot. Standing at the door waiting for her were Fishlegs, Ruffnut, and Tuffnut. They were all beaming (or smirking in Tuffnut's case) and Astrid ran up to them, signing wildly with her hands.

Fishlegs's smile fell for a split second in the face of his friend's silent tongue, but it was soon plastered back on and he engaged her in some animated chatter. Tuff and Ruff banged their helmed heads together and were grinning like loons.

"This is nice," Scott said softly, smiling at Lydia. "Well done, Lydia."

"Thanks," Lydia said.

They all headed inside after Astrid and the others were over their initial greeting. Lydia had noticed that Astrid's signing had changed slightly, some of the words slipping out were Norse, not English. Lydia wondered just how advanced the Viking culture had been—as far as she knew, there wasn't a Norse sign language but Astrid was clearing doing something in a language the Vikings all understood.

If she could just . . . sit down and talk to them, to the Vikings (preferably Fishlegs and Astrid, though the last Dragon Rider, Hiccup, sounded okay, too) then their entire knowledge of the culture could be rewritten. They would have a better understanding, wonderful insight—

"You're back," Ms. McCall said, relief in her voice as she broke Lydia out of her train of thought. She hugged Scott tightly before releasing him and looking at them all with worry.

Lydia suddenly became aware that she smelled like the public toilets and probably looked terrible. She looked down for a moment to regain her composure, and when Ms. McCall looked at her, she was coolly looking back.

"Yes," Deaton said. "Did you get the next clue, by any chance?"

"I did," Lydia offered. "It said; _'the last clue you'll need lies with the heart, for two lovers who have long been apart, a symbol of love, not for them but for you, is all you'll need for the final clue.'_"

"So, _that's_ clear . . ." Isaac muttered behind them. Lydia stifled a grin, stretching her arms and wrists as she stood at the edge of the counter.

"So we need to find two lovers," Scott said.

"But they need to have something that means love to us but nothing to them." Stiles pointed out.

"That could be so many things," Stiles pointed out. "The sheer amount of things we've taken to mean love is enormous. I don't even know where to start."

"We can start researching right away," Kira offered. "It shouldn't be too hard to look around and find something that's meaningless to that culture but not to ours."

"But what is ours?" Isaac asked. "American culture? Werewolf-Banshee-Kitsune culture? Which I guess would be supernatural culture."

"Let's just go with American," Scott said. "We all know that. I, for one, have _no_ idea about the . . . m-mating rituals of werewolves."

"That makes two of us," Stiles muttered. "It's not something hunters write about."

"You looked that up?" Scott asked. Stiles rolled his eyes and shrugged, like he was saying _duh_.

"Gross, dude," Scott said before turning back to the pack.

"There's a lot of symbols for love," Derek said. "There's the heart, there's Cupid, there's chocolate . . ."

"How do you _know_ this?" Stiles asked, horrified.

Derek rolled his eyes, but didn't answer.

"The problem is, for us at least, is that America is a collection of a vast range of different cultures," Chris Argent said. "We probably have a much wider idea of love symbols than most people."

". . . Great," Stiles said. "As if this wasn't looking hopeless enough _before_ you opened your mouth."

"Stiles," his father said softly.

Lydia noticed the Vikings were looking incredibly frustrated. "We're looking at this wrong," she said. "What has been the focus? The _Riders_. They're Vikings. We just need to look at the difference between our culture and theirs. The lovers are one of you guys, aren't they?" she asked, eyeing them critically.

Astrid crossed her arms, glaring at the sky. She was mouthing something, but Lydia couldn't see what. The twins just shrugged and went back to trying to feed the potted plant to each other. But Fishlegs . . .

Fishlegs was eyeing her and cutting between her and Astrid. Whatever spell was on him wouldn't let him reveal it out loud.

But Astrid . . .

A memory flashed in front of Lydia's eyes from the bathroom just an hour ago . . .

_Astrid sighed, but nodded. She reached her hand up and brushed it out of her face. Lydia spied a small silver locket in the shape of a heart around her neck. It startled her; she hadn't pinned Astrid down as the type of person to keep a locket with her. She wondered why the vampire had allowed Astrid to keep it._

"It's your locket." Lydia said. "It's . . . it's your locket!"

She felt the eyes of the entire pack on her, questioning, impatient. "What?" Derek eventually asked.

"The earliest known use of a locket is during the Commonwealth in 1649, where they were used for locks of hair or ashes of a loved one," Lydia said breathlessly. "But the heart shape that Astrid has . . . that shape is not present in anything Viking. The Viking's had separate runes for the heart and love. That symbol wasn't popularized until Christianity came up with Valentine's Day . . ."

There was silence that Lydia had long grown used to when she showed off her knowledge, but she was too fixated on Astrid's guarded expression, on the locket the blonde Viking was turning around and around on its chain.

"Vikings has sacred arm-rings." Lydia said. "They also used rings like we do. They had necklaces—the twins have some on right now—but they didn't have a locket or the heart shape—" she licked her lips, "it's something from our culture which is a conglomerate from all who came before us . . ."

"What are you saying?" Mrs. McCall asked.

Lydia was afraid to look away from Astrid, whose hooded eyes drooped, as though she was enchanted by Lydia's accusations.

"Lockets held the remains of those dear to us," Lydia finally said.

"The sixth Rider is, what, in her locket?" Malia asked.

"Yes." Lydia said.

Astrid was looking at the locket like she had never seen it before. Fishlegs looked like he was going to wet himself. The twins had ceased their antics and were watching Astrid with a hawk-like intensity that took Lydia aback.

The locket around Astrid's neck seemed to hum, and the blonde hastily tore it off, breaking the chain. It clicked to the floor, spinning around and around in circles, faster and faster, nearly flying around. Flames started to gather around it in a mini tornado of flame. The fire turned gold for a moment, reaching up to the ceiling. Just as Lydia was about to scream about the possibility of a fire, it was gone.

In the aftermath of the light, their gazes were drawn to the man lying on the floor in front of them.

* * *

_Far away, on an island shrouded in mist and darkness, green eyes snapped open, cat-like pupils focusing on something far beyond the beaches of its domain. With a low grumble, it rose to its lithe feet and spread wings darker than shadow. It took off, leaving the soil behind and gliding above the clouds._

_It had a long way to fly._

* * *

**Yay, Hiccup is here!**

**This chapter was iffy for me-please let me know what you think. Good, bad, in-between?**

**The Odic Force was made by Baron Carl von Reichenbach. It was a hypothetical vital energy or life force named for the Norse god Odin. von Reichenbach created it in 1845.**

**The heart stuff and locket stuff is true (I think. Please correct me if I'm wrong) and you can Google it if you want to.**

**Look out, next week! Hiccup is back in town!**


	15. Chapter 15: Dancing and the Dreaming

Chapter 14: Dancing and Dreaming

* * *

**A/N: Thank you to each and every reviewer. Even if you're a Guest (so I can't respond) I read each comment and it gives me joy. **

**I AM SO, SO SORRY THIS IS LATE! I was on vacation to California when my entire family decided we were done with the whole thing. So we basically drove until nine PM on Thursday and I was too tired to post, and then we drove from eight Friday until two AM today. I kid you not. It was an insane amount of driving. I AM SO SORRY!**

* * *

'His name is Hiccup,' Astrid signed, spelling out Hiccup's name longhand. She was kneeling on the floor, Hiccup's head in her lap, looking at him with love and . . . a touch of fury. Lydia was starting to get that Astrid was a very angry person.

Hiccup had brown hair. He had freckles. He was tall and gangly—basically everything Lydia thought a warrior like Astrid _wouldn't_ be attracted to. But, well, to each their own she supposed. The only thing about Hiccup that told of a harsh life was his missing left foot—there was a metal peg-leg in its place. He wore leather armor that Lydia had never seen before—it must have been his own design. Lydia was itching to study it (with these six people, Viking history could very well be _rewritten_) but she was _quite_ aware that now wasn't the time.

"He's back," Fishlegs choked, looking over the moon about it.

"Well, duh," Tuffnut said. "I mean, we're seeing him right now."

"So that's the last of the Dragon Riders," Deaton murmured. Though he spoke softly, he caught everyone's attention.

"We just need his poem and we can find the Dragon Master." Derek said.

Lydia immediately looked around, aware the others were doing the same. The words of the next poem weren't carven or burnt into the walls. They weren't etched into the mirror, nor were they located somewhere on his person.

"I don't see them," Stiles said at last. A touch of panic crossed his face. "Where are they?"

"Maybe they're just taking longer to appear," Scott reasoned.

"But they always appeared promptly," Lydia pointed out. "Every single time the Riders have been found, the poems have just _been _there."

"Calm down," Derek snapped at Stiles, who was practically vibrating with tension. "There's a reason."

"I don't see one!" Stiles protested, whirling around and facing Derek, his fists clenched.

"Then maybe you should try patience," Derek snarled as he stepped forward into Stiles' space. They glared at each other, each trying to get the other to back down.

"Everyone, just back off!" Scott said. He waited for Stiles and Derek to slowly step back before taking a deep breath. "I know we've had a long few days—_weeks_, really—but this isn't the time to fight. We _need _to work together. There's something different about Hiccup, and we just need to wait for him to wake up before we jump to conclusions about what's going on."

"But we don't have the time, Scott," Argent said evenly. "He might never wake up, like that one," he nodded his head at Snotlout, who was still propped against the chair. "He might be mute, he might be brain-dead." Lydia saw Astrid's hand clench and tremble as she held Hiccup's hands, and knew that the Viking maiden was listening to Argent intently. "We need to find the Dragon Master, Scott."

"And it looks like we can't until Hiccup wakes up." Scott said.

Argent walked forward silently, his eyes cold but with a touch of compassion for the struggling Alpha. "I know this isn't what you want to hear," he said quietly. "And I know you've been across the world looking for these Riders, but this was a long shot at best, Scott. These people, from what I've seen, are damaged, broken, unstable people. The Prophecy Deaton found may very well be real, but we can't afford to wait and find out. The dragons are _killing _us. We _have _to fight back."

"They're the answer," Scott responded quietly.

"Are you sure?" Argent's voice was barely a whisper, but everyone heard it, was straining to listen to the conversation. The room was deadly quiet.

"Yes," Scott said. Resolution was writ across his face, in every line and angle. "I know it just as I know myself and what I am. _This _is the answer. This is why it was so easy to find them all. _Because it was time._ I've been told over and over to trust my instincts as an Alpha and as a Werewolf, and they're _both _telling me this is the right thing."

Argent looked like he wanted to fight back, to lay out exactly _why _Scott was being foolhardy . . .

But it was then Hiccup woke with a gasp.

He looked blindly around at them all and his breath came in ragged pants. He did not seem to recognize Fishlegs or the twins, but his eyes rested on Astrid for a moment.

"Mun þú mik, man ek þik." One trembling finger crept up to touch her cheek before it dropped back to lie limply his lap. "Unn þú mér, ann ek þér." His voice was whispery, hoarse, and he almost immediately drifted off again.

Astrid shuffled back like he had burned her, his head hitting the floor with a quiet thud. The Viking maiden hit the counter and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and burying her head on their tops.

"What?" Stiles asked once they had both fallen still again, but for once Lydia didn't have an answer. She had no idea what Hiccup had just said.

Fishlegs was looking between Astrid and Hiccup like they were a hybrid cow-and-monkey combination; like it didn't compute, those two apart and in pain because of the other.

"So . . ." Stiles said awkwardly, rubbing his head and looking nervously at his dad. "Anyone, uh, see some magic poem yet?"

"No," Fishlegs muttered.

"Then where is it?" Derek demanded. "We need the Dragon Master! He's woken up, he's regain consciousness, I don't see our answer."

"Can't you give it a rest?" Fishlegs cried, leaping to his feet and staring defiantly at Derek. "They've been through a lot; we all have!"

"People are dying!" Derek snarled, his eyes flashing blue. "We don't have _time."_

"Wait until Hiccup wakes up again," Fishlegs said stubbornly. "If anyone can explain what's going on, it's him!"

Derek and Fishlegs had a stare down, the twins excitedly looking between the two. Lydia could tell they were itching for a fight, for blood to spill. Astrid didn't raise her head from her knees.

"Derek," Scott warned, stepping forwards as if to break the two apart.

Finally Derek, though he didn't look away, stepped back slightly and nodded stiffly. "You have until sundown," he said. "We can't wait any longer. Too many people are being slaughtered." He stormed out the doors, the bell tinkling cheerfully behind him.

Peter unstuck himself from the corner and glided past them and out the door, after his nephew.

Lydia sighed in relief as she watched the creepy psychopath leave.

"Sorry," Scott said to Fishlegs, unnecessarily. "He's—we all are—worried."

"We understand." Fishlegs said tiredly. "We do. Just . . . Snotlout won't wake up, and Astrid can't talk and . . . this is the first time I've seen them in a millennia."

"I get it," Scott said. "But Argent thinks the dragons will attack tonight—they've had one too many quiet nights."

"And dragon attacks are no fun," Fishlegs agreed. "Believe me; we know."

"Then how can we protect ourselves?" Scott asked. "You guys are the experts."

Fishlegs shook his head. "We know how to train most dragons," he disagreed. "Killing them was more . . . Viking, I guess. We learned how after centuries of practise. Aim for the wings and tail—a downed dragon is a dead dragon."

"That's helpful," Argent said, grabbing a duffle bag from a chair and riffling through it.

"Uh, it might be easier if we just waited for Hiccup." Fishlegs said, looking at Argent nervously.

"We might not have time," Argent said and looked over at Scott with a neutral expression on his face, as though he hadn't just been up in Scott's face, challenging his leadership. "Scott, I'm gonna need some of the pack to set up traps."

"Okay," Scott agreed. "Take who you need."

Argent took Isaac, Malia, and Kira. Lydia watched them leave, climbing into Argent's car and pulling out of the dusty lot.

Mrs. McCall, Sheriff Stilinski, Scott, Stiles, Deaton, the Dragon Riders, and Lydia were left.

Scott and Stiles sat down on the chairs with their parents, and Lydia felt a pang of longing for hers—they had been out of town since this whole thing started and Lydia hadn't seen them for six weeks. They wouldn't be able to get into town now.

Fishlegs was resting near the door, looking outside at the setting sunlight. The twins were quiet now—helmets pulled low over their heads, slumped against the wall and clearly asleep. Deaton retreated into his back room.

"So what now?" Stiles asked after a moment of assuring his dad and Scott's mom that they were okay.

"Now we wait," Scott told him.

"Tell me what you all did," the sheriff ordered. "Don't leave anything out."

So Stiles and Scott explained how they found the Riders and what had happened at the clock shop. They had kept the information short, and Lydia had listened to it for no other reason than she had nothing better to do.

When they had hit the clock shop part, Lydia turned away from them and watched Astrid. She still hadn't moved from where she'd curled up. Her tangled blonde hair shielded her face from Lydia's gaze, but Lydia saw that she was shaking slightly.

"She's the strongest." Fishlegs said next to her. Lydia started and whirled around at the taller boy. Fishlegs held his hands up, open palmed.

"Sorry," he said, sincerity in his voice. Lydia nodded, her heart slowing down from its rapid beat. She didn't know the large Viking could be so _quiet_.

"It's fine," she said. She took a deep breath. Fishlegs looked over at Astrid, sadness a living thing in his eyes.

He nodded in Astrid's direction. "She was the strongest. She was a Viking, through and through. She was going to be the best dragon killer of our generation."

"I thought you were Dragon Riders," Lydia asked.

"We are," Fishlegs said. "The—the Dragon Master showed us a better way. But for the first fifteen years of our life, we were going to kill dragons. We were raised in it, we lived it, and we breathed it. Astrid most of all . . . I wasn't one for violence. I just . . . I just wanted to make my parents proud, I guess."

"Why are you telling me this?" Lydia asked curiously.

Fishlegs shrugged. "I think the weirdest thing about this is seeing Astrid." He said this quietly, his eyes trained on his friend. "I don't know what Snotlout will be like, but he can't be that much different; he and the twins were frozen in time. For them, barely _any_ time has passed. For me, I always died young and I think . . . I think I've stayed mostly the same. But Astrid . . . Astrid had to be hard to survive out there by herself. She lived for centuries upon centuries, and I don't . . . I just don't know who she is, anymore. If she's even the Astrid I know."

Lydia felt her heart ache, and she looked at Astrid again, shaking minutely near Hiccup's prone body.

"She'll be alright." Lydia whispered, not feeling at all reassured by her trembling voice. "She has to be."

* * *

Lydia had joined the Stilinski's and McCall's after her talk with Fishlegs, who'd returned to the door to watch the dying light. Stiles and Scott had finished their story and were listening to their parents tell them about what had happened in the time they were away.

"Houses three blocks away from us were burnt into cinders," the Sheriff said tiredly to Stiles. "There were only two deaths."

"Who?" Stiles asked shakily.

The sheriff huffed out a breath, one that was neither filled with amusement or grief. Just resigned acceptance. "The Jacobs."

Stiles closed his eyes, and a look of haunted pain flashed in Scott's eyes. Lydia didn't know who they were, but clearly the boys did.

"We used to go Trick-or-Treating there," Scott told Lydia quietly when he saw her watching. "Stiles threw eggs at their car, once."

"I was aiming for the car next door," Stiles muttered without opening his eyes. "Trying to get back at that Hill kid."

"That was you?" the sheriff's lips twisted into a parody of a smile. "I should've known."

"Yeah," Stiles said. "Yeah."

The first they realized Hiccup was awake was when a murmuring tenor joined their conversation, quiet and soft. Lydia looked over to see the brown haired man crouching near Astrid's body. He was kneeling on one leg, his amputated one supporting his left elbow, his right resting lightly on his knee. His hair swept in front of his eyes, but Lydia could tell he was soaking in the sight of Astrid.

Astrid had curled up tighter, not letting Hiccup in the cracks. Fishlegs was standing worriedly back, but he was not interfering. He seemed to be listening intently, a hopeful expression on his face.

Lydia strained her ears, trying to pick out what Hiccup was saying softly to Astrid.

"Óst min." He was cooing. Astrid wouldn't lift her head up. If anything, her hands grasped tighter around her knees.

"Óst min," Hiccup tried again. He reached out, hesitantly touching Astrid's matted hair. She flinched, and he removed his hand as though it had been burnt. The pain that flashed in his eyes made Lydia's heart ache, and she didn't even know what he was saying. "Óst min," he said again, though he did not try to touch her again, "ann ek þér."

Lydia became aware that the room was dead silent, everyone focused on the pair except Snotlout and the twins, who were still asleep.

Hiccup took a deep breath and started running his fingers through Astrid's hair, slowly and calmly, as if he were afraid she would cut his hand off.

They must have an interesting relationship.

"_Ek vili svima eða sigla hlaupa atall logra_," to Lydia's surprise, Hiccup began singing softly, his green eyes—and, wow, Lydia had never seen such green eyes—were focused on Astrid and Astrid alone. He had tuned out the world so that only he and Astrid existed.

"_Mœta __aldri__ljúga __ótti vita drekkja,_" Hiccup paused, looking at Astrid softly,

"_eða glaðliga riddari inn uðra vita ævi, ef þú vili kvángask mik . . . _

"_Vætki heitr sól eða frjósa kaldr vili létta mik hlaupa minn ferð . . ._" Hiccup paused again; resting his hand softly on Astrid's clenched one.

His voice was off-key, but Lydia couldn't help but be enraptured by it; he sang from his heart.

"_Ef þú vili eiðr mik yð munr,_" he began rubbing her hand softly with his thumb.

"_Eða elska mik rétta ey . . ._"

He stopped, looking at Astrid with such a look of love and longing that Lydia almost had to look away, her eyes watering. She heard someone behind her draw in a sharp breath.

Everyone seemed to be waiting on Astrid. Even Fishlegs was looking at the blonde, looking frightened and hopeful all at once, and Lydia had no idea what they were waiting for; Astrid was mute. What were they waiting for? For her to look up? For her to face Hiccup after a thousand years apart?

"_My dearest one, my darling dear,_" A husky voice floated from the depths of Astrid's folded body. Lydia blinked, shocked.

Astrid was singing.

"Y_our mighty words astound me._

_But I've no need of mighty deeds_

_when I feel your arms around me."_

Hiccup's face lit up, his eyes wide, his mouth smiling. He reached down and pulled Astrid's face out of her arms gently. She turned willingly with him, her eyes suspiciously red.

Astrid couldn't sing, either, but then again she hadn't spoken for a thousand years.

"_But I would bring you rings of gold," _Hiccup's voice joined into the little song again, his face the picture of hopeful heartbreak.

"_I'd even sing you poetry_

_And I would keep you from all harm_

_if you would stay beside me!"_

Hiccup was singing loudly now, his forehead resting against Astrid's, their eyes locked on each other's. It took Lydia longer than she would have liked to understand the Hiccup was speaking English, his strong voice joining with Astrid's.

Astrid began to sing again, pushing a strand of hair out of Hiccup's eyes.

"_I have no use for rings of gold,_

_I care not for your poetry._

_I only want your hand to hold . . ."_ Astrid was smiling slightly, her eyes flickering with warmth.

"_I only want you near me,"_ Hiccup's lips stretched in a grin.

"_To love and kiss, to sweetly hold!"_ They were singing together, looking at each other fully. Astrid let her knees slide down away from her chest and she turned to face Hiccup head on, kneeling to mirror his position.

"_For the dancing and the dreaming!_

_Through all life's sorrows and delights,_

_I'll keep your love inside me!"_

Fishlegs was clapping his hands in a beat and looking delighted. Lydia heard Ms. McCall gasp in happiness behind her and Lydia couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the two Vikings who were beaming and panting as the words rushed out faster and faster . . .

"_I'll swim and sail on savage seas_

_with ne'er a fear of drowning!_

_And gladly ride the waves of life_

_If you will marry me!"_

Lydia didn't know who moved first; Hiccup or Astrid. But suddenly they were hugging each other tightly, both shaking and laughing and crying . . .

Lydia had never seen anything like it.

One _thousand_ years . . .

Fishlegs was cheering, his voice filling the room as he looked ecstatically at his friends. The twins jolted awake at the noise, looking around with bemused faces.

Lydia was aware that Scott and Stiles were shouting, that Ms. McCall and the sheriff were clapping and that she herself was laughing, overjoyed at seeing these two together.

"Ann ek þér," Hiccup whispered softly. "Astrid, I've missed you so much."

"You idiot," Astrid murmured, burying her face deeper in his shoulder.

Hiccup winced slightly. "I didn't mean for this to happen," he said apologetically, seemingly still unaware they had an audience. "I'm really, really sorry."

"You should be," Astrid's voice was muffled, and Lydia still couldn't get over the fact that Astrid could talk.

Hiccup winced again. "I just . . . I had to do something, Astrid. I couldn't let them die. I just . . . I just didn't think it all the way through."

"I noticed," Astrid said dryly, pulling away slightly. They were still sitting on the floor, knees to knees, their arms still draped around the other's shoulder. Their foreheads were touching and they were only looking at each other, like nothing else mattered.

_ "_Fyrirgef mik," Hiccup murmured.

"Allt er gott," Astrid replied. "Allt er gott."

It was like the sun came out. Hiccup's face broke into a glorious smile that seemed only directed at Astrid and Astrid alone.

They were silent for a beat before Hiccup turned slightly and looked around at all of them. "Er, hi." He said. He twisted his head around until he spotted Fishlegs and the disoriented twins.

"Fishlegs," he said in obvious surprise.

"Hiccup!" Fishlegs squealed, bounding over and tackling Hiccup. Astrid had seen it coming and had rolled out of the way. Hiccup's eyes widened comically as he disappeared beneath Fishlegs's bulk. His arms and legs flailed, the metal peg leg flashing in the sunlight.

"Hey, look, it's Hiccup," Tuffnut commented, sounding shocked. "Where'd you come from?"

"My locket," Astrid said dryly. "Don't you remember, Tuff?"

"It's awfully small," Tuffnut said, squinting at the locket still lying on the floor.

"Hey, you talk again!" Ruffnut yelled happily. "Awesome. Now scream at Snotlout—that's funny."

"He's asleep." Astrid said, bemused. "I'm not going to yell at him if he's not going to look cowed."

"Aww . . ." the twins groaned before Ruffnut wound up and punched her brother. They descended into a wrestling match where they both seemed to be losing, somehow. Astrid turned away from it like it was normal.

"Hey," Stiles said. "We're glad you all are getting better but—"

He didn't get a chance to finish.

"What's going on here?" The new voice had Scott's hackles up, his eyes flashing Alpha red, and Lydia frantically turned to look for the new person.

It was . . . Snotlout?

Snotlout was standing, glaring at them all. "Where am I?" he demanded. "What the hell is going on?"

"Uh," Hiccup seemed at a loss, "it's good to see you too, Snotlout . . ."

"Yeah, yeah," Snotlout waved away the niceties. "Now tell me what's going on!"

"We were caught in a curse," Fishlegs blurted out. "You were frozen for a thousand years."

"I was?" Snotlout looked taken aback, eyeing his surroundings curiously.

"Yeah," Astrid rolled her eyes. "Welcome to the year 2012!"

Snotlout shook his head. "That means nothing to Snotlout!" he said loudly. "They've got statues of me, right? People love me, of course."

"Oh, sure," Hiccup said sarcastically. "Everyone knows Snotlout's name!"

The sarcasm that was so thick the air stank of it went right over Snotlout's head. "Really!" he lit up, "I knew they would!" He struck a pose and Lydia had never seen anything more ridiculous in her life.

"No," Hiccup said flatly. He blinked, looking around. "What language are we speaking?"

"English!" Fishlegs said, practically hopping in place. "It's the developed version of Anglo Saxon."

"Really?" Hiccup's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

"English is one of the most global languages," Fishlegs said. "The Saxons really took off."

"Uh, wow. Okay. Unexpected." Hiccup looked torn between complete surprise and bafflement.

"Hey!" Sheriff Stilinski said. Everyone paused and turned to look at him. "I don't mean to be the downer, but the sun is about to go down, and that means dragon attack, which means we need the Dragon Master."

Astrid and Fishlegs looked surprised. "Didn't you guys get it?" Fishlegs asked.

"Get what?" Scott asked.

"There are six Dragon Riders," Astrid said. "And one Master—it never said that the Master can't not be one of the Dragon Riders."

"What are you saying?" Ms. McCall asked.

Astrid gestured to Hiccup. "This is the Dragon Master,"

"Is that what they're calling me?" Hiccup groaned, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

Astrid rolled her eyes, "Yes."

"Wait," Stiles said. "This guy, whose name is Hiccup, is the Dragon Master?"

"Yes!" Astrid and Fishlegs said in unison.

"Gah!" Stiles threw up his hands. "And you couldn't've told us this before?"

"We tried to!" Fishlegs defended, "but the curse wouldn't let us! Why do you think Astrid regained her voice and Snotlout woke up?"

"Woke up?" Snotlout asked, sounding surprised.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest further when the door slammed open and Isaac tumbled in.

"The dragons are attacking the school," was all he said before spinning around and running back outside.

The Dragon Riders looked at each other before Hiccup stepped forwards, his prosthetic leg clanking against the floor.

"Let's go," he said grimly.

* * *

Mun þú mik, man ek þik – Remember me, I remember you.

Unn þú mér, ann ek þér – Love me, I love you.

Óst min – My love

Ann ek þér – I love you

Fyrirgef mik – Forgive me

Allt er gott – All is good

OKAY - I ALSO GET THAT IT'S CLICHÉ, BUT I REALLY WANTED TO DO THAT SONG BECAUSE OH MY ROWLING IT'S BEAUTIFUL SO DON'T HATE!


	16. Chapter 16: There's Always an Evil Crazy

Chapter 15: There's Always an Evil Crazy Guy

**A/N: Urgh. I hate this chapter. I hope it's okay. Please feel free to shower me with constructive criticism. No flames, please.**

It was the Monstrous Nightmare and the Changewing. Lydia was relieved it wasn't the Skrill. If the _Dragon Riders_ blanched at the thought of the Skrill, then Lydia was glad it didn't show up often.

"We'll handle this!" Hiccup yelled at Scott, "I need to get an idea of what we're facing—how the dragons are being controlled. Are you okay with staying back?"

"Sure," Scott shouted back. "We'll jump in if you need us!"

"You're letting them take charge?" Stiles asked, "Are you sure?"

"They know dragons; we don't." Scott replied.

"Fair enough," Stiles conceded. "An actual dragon fight. What is our life?"

"Not boring?" Scott offered. Stiles grinned madly.

The Dragon Riders leapt into action, rushing forwards and shouting to each other in their native tongue. Lydia didn't even try to understand what they were saying as Hiccup and Astrid peeled away from everyone else, circling around back towards where the Nightmare had demolished the gym wall. The Changewing was climbing up the front of the school, its claws gouging chunks of brick from the side of the building.

"Hooray, no school." Stiles muttered sarcastically. The sheriff whacked his head lightly.

"Not now, Stiles," the sheriff said warningly.

They lost sight of the Dragon Riders under the smoke and flame, and Scott pulled out his phone, calling Kira to get her to tell the pack (and Argent) to stay back for now unless Hiccup gave the word.

They protested. Loudly.

"They're the most competent!" Scott told Kira over the phone, watching as something grabbed the Changewing's attention. The orange dragon disappeared behind the side of the building.

"They're unstable _Vikings,_" Kisa shouted.

Which, yeah, she had a point.

"Please, Kira," Scott begged. "I think they know what they're doing."

"You have more faith in them than I do," Kisa said tartly. The Changewing reappearing, beating its wings and hissing. Loudly.

Why did everything have to be so _loud?_

Lydia just kinda wanted to sleep for a week and ignore the world. She was so_ . . . __exhausted._

Scott hung up, fully expecting the pack on convene on his location. They didn't disappoint.

"Okay, wait, so we're just going to wait here while leaving two angry dragons that are destroying the school to six Viking teenagers?" Kira protested as she appeared with Isaac behind them, her eyes wide as she took in the destruction.

"We brought them here," Lydia said, feeling Stiles's eyes on her. "It seems only fair to let them show their stuff, right?"

As they watched, the Nightmare pulled away from the building, disappearing into the smoke, looking down at the invisible Hiccup and Astrid.

The Changewing was pausing in its hissing attack to look curiously down at the ground. Lydia couldn't see what the Dragon Riders were doing; only that it had the Nightmare and Changewing's full attention.

"What is going on?" the sheriff murmured.

"I'll tell you what," a voice boomed around the area, seemingly from nowhere. "The Master of Dragons has returned!"

The dragons took off suddenly, flying up to the sky and disappearing in the night.

"Who are you?" Hiccup's defiant voice called up.

"I'm the one who wanted you to return!" the voice replied_. _"I've spent years finding the last remaining dragons, all to get you to come back!"

"The dragons were sent away!" Hiccup shouted. Lydia looked over as Fishlegs, Snotlout, and the twins hurried up to the group, looking around in confusion.

"They're real," Lydia heard Isaac say, and she glanced over to see him looking at the twins.

Of course; if Hiccup's reappearance cured Astrid's muteness and Snotlout's Sleeping Beauty curse, then the twins must have become visible.

Which, of course, must mean that Scott and the rest of Beacon Hills could see them.

What a terrifying thought.

"Not all of them!" the voice crowed. "The Skrill—my personal favorite, if I do say so myself—was frozen in the ice—"

"Son of a half-Troll!" Fishlegs cursed.

"The Nightmare and the Changewing were both injured—they hid out for all this time until _I_ came along and offered them freedom!"

"Who are you?" Hiccup's voice, distant before, sounded closer. He and Astrid must be making their way towards them.

"Forgive my manners, Master; I am Engres Maras, Dragon Rider, at your service!"

"And, uh, where are you talking from, exactly?" Hiccup and Astrid came into view, picking their way carefully across the rubble-strewn ground. Hiccup was concentrating mostly on the sky, prompting Astrid to help guide him around bits of brick.

"Everywhere," the voice—Engres—said. "I am not at the school, if that's what you're wondering."

"No, I'm wondering why you chose to attack and kill hundreds of innocent people!"

At least Hiccup's priorities were in the right place. Lydia nearly sighed in thankfulness. Hiccup, the Master of Dragons, was willing to help them for the sake of the dying innocents.

"They were merely to get you together." Engres said, dismissal clear in his tone. "I knew there were supernatural teenagers who had a habit of getting things done in this town who had the connections for find the Druid's Prophecy. Clearly I was right."

"Oh, you couldn't get us yourself?" Hiccup snarked. He and Astrid appeared behind a chunk of rock, Hiccup looking up at the sky, brow furrowed. Astrid was clearly gritting her teeth.

Engres chuckled. "Of course not—I needed to show you what I've done for dragons!"

"Done for—wait, what?" Hiccup looked surprised. "What do you . . . do you mean?"

"Why, all of this—the gathering of the Dragon Riders, the last three dragons at my command, we can do what you've always meant to do!"

"And—and what did I mean to do?" Now Hiccup looked lost. Lydia understood that feeling. Engres was making no sense.

Unless . . .

No.

Her blood ran cold.

"Bring the dragons back of course!" Engres's voice took on a maniacal edge, his tone lowering and intensifying. "We can take back this world for dragons—its true masters! Together with your Riders, we will rule the world and make it a better, safer place!"

"I—I . . ." Hiccup clearly didn't know how to respond to that, and Lydia found herself speechless as well.

"I will give you three days to decide," Engres said. "Three days to find out just what humanity has been up to—destroying the world with toxins and filth! Than we shall meet up and figure out an action plan!"

Engres spoke no more, and the pack and Riders stood stunned in a huddled bunch.

"Why are all my adversaries insane?" Hiccup suddenly demanded. "Either they think they're gods that walk upon this world like Dagur, or _they're_ 'Master of the Dragons' like Drago Bludvist!"

"It's your charming personality," Astrid said. "He's given us three days to prepare, though. Let's not waste it."

Lydia couldn't agree more.

* * *

_ There were breaks in its flight—there were allies it needed to pick up. From the ice cave, from the statue of hope, from the mountain of faces and the last—the last was its destination. Two circles drawn in dust. Then they would all be complete._

_ They rested in claws that were gentle, soft. They would be safe there. It would not allow any harm to befall them._

_ The Destiny was almost here—it could feel it. Then they would be reunited. Then they could rest._

_ It glided through the night, its claws full of friends from long ago._

* * *

_Scott_

Three days passed.

Those three days were full of work. The Dragon Riders knew how to fight dragons and were willing to share some tips—after all, the first half of their lives had been dedicated to killing dragons. But they all preferred to teach them how to calm dragons and disable them through other means. They showed them where to scratch on the neck to knock any dragon out. They showed them how to calmly approach them, showing respect, how to connect with them.

With a lack of dragons to practice on, they made do with a wobbling construct made of buckets, brooms, and metal scraps.

Argent and Derek didn't see the point, and Malia complained about how much time this was wasting when they could be learning how to _fight__ . . ._

But Scott saw the value of this. He and Hiccup were leaders, and that didn't mean going for the most obvious, violent solution. For what Hiccup had seen on the Nightmare (and concurred by Fishlegs with the Changewing) were scars that spoke of abuse.

"It must be from Engres," Hiccup said grimly. "They'd follow out of fear if it meant survival. We've seen it before. Dragons and humans aren't too different from each other."

"That's horrible," Stiles said, looking sick.

Hiccup shrugged. "There are bad dragons and bad humans," he said. "We've just stumbled across a bad human in control of dragons."

"Historically, not a good combination," Astrid muttered, pecking Hiccup on the cheek as she went to sharpen a blade.

One of the first things Hiccup had done was build a forge. Apparently he was used to making one quickly ("When we started traveling around to save dragons, we kinda needed a forge.")

He made an axe for Astrid, a sword for Snotlout, a hammer for Fishlegs, a spear for Ruffnut, and a mace for Tuffnut ("Macey two!" Tuffnut had cooed. "Oh, how beautiful you are, how the sunlight glints off of your smooth silver skin. Let us never part!" Ruffnut had rolled her eyes dramatically and huffed, spear slung over her shoulder.)

Scott watched as each Viking relaxed at the feel of a weapon in their hands. Even Fishlegs, who had probably not needed one for many reincarnations, looked less tense than before.

Scott had looked at Stiles with a bewildered expression and Stiles had merely shrugged with a raised eyebrow as if saying _Vikings._

Scott had shaken his head and asked Hiccup if there was anything they could do—traps, weapon sharpening, _anything._

Hiccup had spread out blueprints that he'd made at some point in time (_seriously__, _Scott thought_, __does this Viking __ever__ sleep?__) _for several non-lethal dragon traps. Scott had put his pack on it, enlisting several Beacon Hills residents in the construction.

Hiccup continued working in the forge, building something that reminded Scott somewhat of a light saber.

"I can't remake it exactly," Scott overheard Hiccup telling Astrid one day. "The gas doesn't exist here anymore and the iron doesn't, either."

"You're still brilliant," Astrid said before punching him in the sternum and walking off, a spring to her step as Hiccup groaned behind her.

Stiles had taken it upon himself to teach Hiccup and Snotlout (very reluctantly Snotlout, but still) about the regular world. He flat out refused to teach the twins and Scott, looking at the twins setting random things on fire in Hiccup's makeshift forge, agreed.

After a few hours of trying to answer any questions the two Vikings had, Snotlout stormed out, looking furiously at Scott and waving his finger around.

"Your _friend_ is so _annoying_." He growled before disappearing. He did not return to Stiles's talks, and Stiles didn't bring it up.

Scott and Hiccup were approaching the clinic after a long day of preparing for the attack in one day. Hiccup had been at his forge all day making traps and weapons. Scott had been learning about dragons from Fishlegs with the rest of his pack.

There was just _so much_ to learn.

As they approached Scott spied Astrid crouched alone on the roof of the clinic, looking out at the setting sun. Her axe was lying in her lap, but she paid no mind to it as she sat silently.

"Is she okay?" Scott asked Hiccup.

He wasn't expecting the crushing grief and guilt to pour off of Hiccup in waves. Scott gagged slightly at the smell, but tried not to outwardly show it.

"She's upset," Hiccup said. "With—with good reason."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Scott asked, stopping and leaning against the clinic wall where Astrid couldn't see them or hear them.

Hiccup rubbed the back of his head awkwardly.

"I, uh, get that it's a touchy subject?" Scott said. "But, um, just if you wanted someone to listen who didn't judge you or something."

"And you wouldn't judge me, would you?" Hiccup asked, almost fondly before he sighed deeply.

"I . . ." his face twisted and Scott tried not to gag at the new wave of grief and guilt. The Viking scrubbed at his face, pulling at his bangs. "Okay, look, they all died," he said. "I know we all look the same age now, and I can only guess it's because this was our prime, but I died an old man, Scott. I—I watched my hands turn veiny and knotted with age, I watched as I became hunched, as it turned hard to ride Tooth—my dragon. I died _old,_ Scott."

Scott tried to picture Hiccup old and frail, but couldn't—he was too full of life.

"And that . . . that wasn't the worst part," Hiccup said. "They . . . I know you may not think much of my friends, but they were _my friends._ They bullied me when we were younger, but then I showed them a whole new _world_ and they amended and changed and became so much more than they ever thought they could be. And . . . and I watched them all die." Hiccup seemed to be doing his level best to cry.

_He's talked to no one about this,_ Scott thought, _he's kept it all bottled up._

_ "_My friends, my world . . . the dragons were dying faster than ever and when I came across the spell . . . I took it." Hiccup looked pained, and his fingers fluttered up to his hair were there was a single braid woven into the brown-red strands.

"I didn't think, and I just thought 'I can give a second chance to my friends and the dragons at the same time. We can do this; we're strong."

"And you did all survive it," Scott said. Hiccup laughed bitterly.

"Yeah?" He raised a challenging eyebrow. "Fishlegs had to live his life over and over again, wondering when it would end, when he could _finally_ die. Snotlout—Stiles said that you said you fought a shadow that said_ '_Snørrslamp, Snørrslamp, oi, oi, oi'"

"Yeah . . ." Scott said wearily, thinking about the shadow in the cave.

"Snørrslamp is Snotlout's name." Hiccup said. "That was _him_ you fought off."

"Oh," Scott couldn't reconcile the sleeping Viking with the shadow that had attacked him (and had had a _very_ weird battle cry).

"I asked Snotlout," Hiccup said. "Apparently he'd come alive once a decade in spirit form and watch over people. He's different from before because he spent years watching over children and adults. The twins haven't outwardly changed, but they're more—and I can't believe I'm saying this—more insane than before while also being quieter. It's so odd, you have no idea. They alternated years, y'see. Ruff would come alive one year and wreak havoc while Tuff would come alive the next and do the same. Like nasty spirits. They . . . they watched the world go by them without each other there. I think they might have become more insane than usual."

"And you and Astrid?" Scott asked gently.

Hiccup looked at the dying light in the west. "I didn't even know time was passing," he whispered. "To me, I cast that spell only a few days ago an old man. I wake up and Astrid is . . . she's terrified of me, Scott. She still loves me, but she doesn't trust me at all because . . . Scott, I cursed her to an immortal life. She had to—she had to live _centuries._"

Scott felt his throat close up. He'd been so focused on the dragons attacking Beacon Hills and finding the Dragon Riders he hadn't given any thought to how they—the Dragon Riders—were doing.

They were just people.

"And she's alternating between never wanting to let me out of her sight and not wanting to see me and I can't even _begin_ to understand what she's been through. I watched her _die_, Scott," his voice broke, and a tear slid down his cheek. He rubbed it away almost angrily. "I watched her body get torn to shreds and there was _nothing_ I could do. And while I'm oblivious inside a locket for a thousand years, she's fighting to survive in an ever-changing world where her people and her culture and her friends are _forgotten._ I can't . . . how do I even begin to try and beg her forgiveness?"

"I don't know," Scott said honestly. "From what I've seen of Astrid, she's strong in body and mind. She's toughened out this entire immortality thing and now . . . Hiccup, when you appeared I saw _hope_ in her eyes. I think this is just overwhelming for her."

He felt Hiccup's eyes on him, questioning.

"She's been mute for a thousand years," Scott said. "She's been alone. She's torn between wanting to blame you and being unable to—she saw the destruction of the dragons, too, you said. So she _knows._ I think . . . I think she just needs time."

"I've always loved her," Hiccup said softly. "It was more like an infatuation when we were younger, but once we saw each other for who we really were . . . I loved her so much, Scott." He looked down, hiding his face in the growing darkness. "I _love_ her. And to see her like this and to know that it's _my fault . . ."_

Scott thought of Allison's hand, falling still for the last time. How he hadn't gotten there in time; how he hadn't had her back.

"Yeah," he said. "I get that. Give it—give it time, Hiccup. This has all been rather fast for her."

He saw Hiccup nod in the dusk before guiding the silent, grief-stricken man inside.

* * *

"Hi," Scott said awkwardly. He stepped from foot to foot in the doorway, unsure if he was welcome.

"Oh, hello," Snotlout said, briefly looking up his bomb project. He was filling it full of—god, were those _eel guts?_

_ "_Um, I don't know if you remember the cave . . ." Scott said hesitantly.

Snotlout sighed impatiently. "Yes," he said. "And I thought you were trying to do something bad to this treasure," he gestured to his face before going back to scooping up eel guts. "So, no hard feelings—don't' do it again."

"Er, okay." Scott said. "Just . . . sorry." There was a pause where Snotlout glared at Scott. It was like the Jackson glare, but with more annoyance and less disgust.

"Do you . . . do you need help?" Scott pointed to the empty bombs and basket of eels.

"If you want," Snotlout said. "_Hiccup_ assigned me this. I wait a thousand years and I have to handle _eels__."_

Scott silently agreed that that was . . . kinda mean.

"I mean, it's not like the one-legged wonder has anything _better_ to do." Snotlout gripped.

Scott smiled thinly, starting to see where Hiccup was coming from. He pulled the basket closer to him and scooped out an eel.

Scott had to listen to Snotlout's moaning and self-preening for an hour.

He ran for the hills after that.

* * *

"So, busy?" Scott asked, standing awkwardly at the door to Hiccup's forge.

Hiccup looked more composed then last night. His eyes were slightly red, but that could just be from the smoke. Scott studied the Viking whom he had grown fond of and wished someone could give him—give all of them, really—a break. He hadn't seen Hiccup since their talk outside of the clinic. He had seen Astrid just now, who had apparently decided that the trees in the reserve had done her a personal injustice and needed to be reprimanded with her axe.

The Viking looked up. "Not so much, no. Still trying to get used to this new time."

"I hope it's not too bad," Scott said hesitantly.

Hiccup shrugged. "No time period is perfect apparently," was all he said darkly.

Scott ignored the grim tone; he'd address it later. "We've got a few more hours until our third day is up," Scott said. "What are you going to do?"

"Only I can reverse the spell," Hiccup said. "So Engres has got no chance unless he sways me to his side. You and I need to keep him busy while the others try and reason with the dragons. Astrid, Argent and Derek have the Skrill; there's really no way to train it, we've tried. Argent has somehow managed to get his hands on an ice-making thing. I've tuned it up a bit, so it should freeze the Skrill."

"You . . . tuned it up?" Scott asked, surprised. "But the technology is far beyond your time."

Hiccup chuckled slightly. "Yeah," he said finally. "But _I_ was ahead of my time. After looking into it, it wasn't actually all that different from some of the stuff I've invented. I caught onto it fairly quickly."

"Dude, how smart _are_ you?" Scott asked, bewildered_._

Hiccup shrugged, his smile sliding off his face. "Hopefully smart enough to trap the Skrill," was all he said.

"You've run into it before?" Scott asked.

"Yeah," Hiccup glanced quickly up at him before looking back down at his light saber thing. "The Berserker Tribe—Dagur the Deranged's tribe—they found the Skrill and we accidentally melted it. There was a mini war over it that resulted in the Skrill being frozen again. When the spell was cast, I guess the Skrill couldn't break free of the ice."

"What was the spell?" Scott blurted out. "We guessed the Destiny spell was somehow involved, but that doesn't explain the disappearance on the dragons. You—you haven't told anyone."

Hiccup shook his head. "And it'll stay that way," he said grimly, "until Engres is taken care of."

Scott sighed, but nodded. He could ask in another, less stressful time.

Stiles always said his timing sucked.

Hiccup went back to tinkering, focusing his attention solely on his light saber thing. Scott envied his attentiveness; he wished he'd had that kind of drive in school.

"How's Astrid?" Scott asked curiously.

Hiccup sighed. "I tried to talk to her later that night, but I didn't . . . I didn't know she'd be cursed that badly. She's trying to hide it, but I can see how much she's hurting. I just wish . . ."

Scott thought of Allison's laughter, her smile, her soft voice.

He thought of her blood pooling on the snowy, dirt ground, of her gasping voice, of her darkening eyes.

"There's a lot we might wish for," he said softly, grasping Hiccup's shoulder. "But we have to move forward. Talk it out with her fully. You never know what's going to happen."

Hiccup shot Scott a small grin, his eyes darting up to meet Scott's. "She's a Viking through and through," he said. "They don't do 'talk it out'."

Scott laughed, and Hiccup joined him.

"Scott!" Kira hurried into the forge. "Scott!"

"What is it?" He asked, concerned.

"Engres is on top of the school," she said breathlessly. Her katana were strapped to her back, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Our time is up."

"I thought we had more time!" Scott said.

"Obviously not," Hiccup said. "He must be impatient. Let's go," Hiccup picked up his light saber and striding out the door, Scott and Kira following.

It was time to fight.


	17. Chapter 17: Who is the Dragon Master?

Chapter 16: Who is the Dragon Master?

**A/N: The new season is epic. I'm loving it. Been busy, so I haven't finished it yet. Perhaps after I finish it, all go back and edit my story to slip in a few references for the new show. Enjoy!**

As soon as they got to the school, they were under attack. The Changewing surrounded them, its snake-like body flowing in and out of sight, melting the ground around them with a burst of green acid and keeping them there. The werewolves growled, Stiles raised his bat (he wasn't supposed to be with them, but by the time Scott noticed he was with the group it was too late) and the Dragon Riders readied the new weapons Hiccup had made them.

The Changewing didn't seem interested (yet) in harming them. It merely kept them pinned in place, snaking around them and growling as they tried to engage it. The Nightmare waited silently on the roof of the smoking school. The Skrill was still nowhere to be found.

"Well?" Hiccup shouted after a minute. "Are you . . . here?"

"I am, and I'm very curious to hear your answer," Engres said. His voice wasn't the booming, sounding-from-everywhere-while-being-nowhere thing it had been before; it was now quieter, closer.

A second later revealed why; the Skrill flew down from around the school, its beady eyes fixated on them. Engres was riding on its back.

The Skrill was a true nightmare. It's purple-black scales danced with electricity, and the frill of spines that sloped off it's skull were fanned out to look particularly menacing. The large, leathery wings beat up and down, but managed to keep its rider fairly steady.

It was the rider, however, that scared Scott the most.

He looked to be in his middle ages; his thick brown hair was streaked with grey, his beard was full and carefully braided. His blue eyes pinned Hiccup under an intense stare. His arms were thick and veined, and he wore a thick black swat-team type of armor.

"Well, nice to talk face-to-face," Hiccup said, managing to hide most of his sarcasm.

Engres bowed his head slightly. "You are the Dragon Master," he said. "I owe you everything."

"What, uh, what do you mean?" Hiccup looked completely confused; Scott understood why. How could Hiccup have done anything if he'd been trapped in a locket for a thousand years?

Engres didn't seem to be the person Hiccup would _ever _associate with. In fact, over the last few days the times Scott heard Hiccup talking about the new rider, it seemed to be filled with bitterness and disgust.

And that left up the question, which Scott hoped Hiccup would ask at some point in time; how had Engres even _heard _of Hiccup? It's not like they taught about Hiccup the Dragon Master at school or anything.

"It came to me in dreams!" Engres spread his arms, grinning widely, and unknowingly answering Scott's question. "Whispers of dragons, of how to find them and how to train them. I know you, Hiccup. I know what you've done, what your Dragon Riders have done. I knew where the Skrill was and when you sent the dragons away it did not go with. Imagine my surprise when I found not only the Skrill, but a Nightmare and Changewing as well!"

"So, what, now you're _controlling_ them?" Hiccup demanded. "That's not what I do!"

_ "_No, it's what _your_ dragon did. It was an Alpha, was it not? Pardon me; it was _the_ Alpha."

"What of it?" Hiccup looked guarded, and Scott was wondering about _dragons_ having _alphas_ when Engres began stroking the Skrill's head, carefully avoiding the spines.

"Together we could bring back the dragons," Engres coaxed. "Everything could be like it was before."

Hiccup raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware humanity wanted to go back to a time of plagues and disease and darkness."

"What?" Engres looked confused. And put off. And irritated. And had Scott mentioned confused?

"In order for everything to go back to the way it was, _everything_ would have to go back," Hiccup explained with the air of a patient man talking to an insufferable child. "Back to a time of Vikings and overlords and plagues. There would be no more computers—marvelous inventions, by the way—no more medicine, no more space exploration."

"You are familiar with that time, though." Engres protested. He was starting to look angry; apparently this talk was not going the way he had hoped. "Do you not miss it?"

"Oh, I miss it." Hiccup said. "But it's gone forever. So has the Age of Dragons, Engres. They don't belong here anymore. Their time is over . . . just like ours." He gestured to his fellow Dragon Riders. Astrid stood calmly by his side, expressionless. Fishlegs was looking down, nodding slightly. The twins were vibrating, clearly wanting to attack _something__. _Snotlout was smirking wickedly.

"I sent the dragons to a better place," Hiccup continued, "a world where they are free and where they don't have to worry about humanity deciding to kill them all."

"You stole them from this world!" Engres screamed, "You took them away, when they _belonged_ here!"

"Humanity disagreed," Hiccup said. "They were killing dragons by the dozens. Why do you think I let them leave? I gave them a chance and a choice. I did not _force _them to do anything. This entire thing was their choice."

"They belong with us!" Engres bellowed. He was crouched now on the back of the Skrill as if to pounce, hate in his eyes.

"I will not join you," Hiccup said, standing strong. "It would undermine everything we have sacrificed in all of these years," he gestured to the Dragon Riders, "and it would do no good for the dragons—humans would freak out and try and kill them. I don't want that . . . and I don't think you do, either."

"NO!" Engres shouted, "FIRE!"

Hiccup had just enough time to dive out of the way before the Skrill blasted the place where he had been standing with a bolt of lightning.

Scott sensed the others run to their positions, following the plan the Riders and the pack had formulated over the last three days.

Scott, Stiles and Lydia hurried over to the Riders, who were trying to get to Hiccup; he'd been thrown into a pile of rubble from the force of the lightning's impact.

Before they could get to him, however, the Skrill fired again. The Riders, Scott, Stiles and Lydia watched in horror as the lightning bolt arched over their heads, towards the stunned Hiccup looking dazedly about.

"NO!" Astrid screamed, horror flashing across her face.

Hiccup couldn't get out of the way in time.

Just as the lightning was about to hit and fry Hiccup an odd shriek, like nothing Scott had ever heard before, sounded faintly above the crackle of the white fire. He was pretty sure only his werewolf ears could hear it, and he wondered distantly what it was, his gaze still locked on Hiccup's limp form, which was obscured by something large and dark just as the lightning hit.

But the lightning . . . didn't hit. Instead it bubbled with purple, dissipating and flickering away like it had never been there.

Standing in front of Hiccup was the large dark thing. It was a . . . dragon.

Scott had _never_ seen this dragon before. It was sleek and smooth, its green eyes glaring with narrow pupils like a cat's. Its large, bat-like wings were raised, and eerie blue light was emanating from the spines along its head and back.

Its nostrils were glowing, too.

_What the hell?_ Scott thought as the dragon shrieked at Engres and the Skrill. The Skrill growled back, hate burning in its eyes.

"Toothless," Astrid gasped.

Scott looked at the very sharp teeth the dragon had bared and wondered _what the hell?_ again.

Scott was now 100% sure that Vikings had the weirdest names in all of history.

"Toothless!" Hiccup cried loudly, struggling to his feet. The dragon—Toothless—shuffled back without taking its eyes off of Engres and the Skrill. Scott saw that one of the tail . . . fins . . . was discolored with metal straps connecting it to the other tail fin. Hiccup levered himself up by supporting himself on Toothless's back and looking defiantly at Engres.

Who was looking . . . rather nervous, Scott thought, pleased at the sight.

"I thought he was dead!" Engres shouted. "Dragons that size do not live this long!"

"You're right, they don't." Hiccup said. "Neither do Vikings, and there seem to be six alive here." Scott heard Stiles snicker next to him. "But that's what you didn't get—what none of you got," he looked around at everyone around him, even his Dragon Riders. "_I'm_ not the Dragon Master," Hiccup said. "I'm only _part_ of the Dragon Master."

"Hiccup?" Astrid called, uncertainty clear in her voice. Scott felt very confused.

Hiccup put an arm around Toothless's neck. "_We're_ the Dragon Master," he said. "Together. As one."

Hiccup reached down and grabbed something—some_things_ Scott saw—from Toothless's claws. He set them down and arranged them carefully while Toothless kept the Skrill and Engres pinned down, snarling softly.

Hiccup stood up after putting whatever it was together and stood back.

Light shot up to the sky, arching far above their heads and splitting into four different streaks of light.

One danced around Astrid, bright blue with red and yellow undertones, playing at her hair and tweaking her clothes. Another was viciously red and orange, settling down near Snotlout. The third was brown, with dark and light undertones that blobbed about Fishlegs's person. The last was fast and large and green and brown and red. It went to the twins.

Then the mists started solidifying into . . . into dragons.

The blue mist turned into a blue dragon with a beaked mouth and large yellow spikes frilling its head. The orange mist turned into a Nightmare with dark red stripes lining its back like a tiger. The brown blob turned into . . . well, Scott would call it a bumblebee dragon until he learned its name. That seemed the most apt description. The green mist mobbing the twins turned into a two headed, snake-like dragon.

The dragons roared, Toothless's cry joining the chorus.

The Riders cried out in joy;

"Stormfly!"

"Meatlug!"

"Hookfang!"

"Barf! Not _you,_ Belch."

"Don't listen to her, Belch."

"This is what the loyalty of a dragon looks like," Hiccup's voice cut through the din as the dragons and Riders enthusiastically greeted each other. He unhooked his light saber from his belt and pressed a button. A blade descended . . . like a light saber. Then it caught on fire.

Hiccup had a _flaming sword._

Scott looked at the glowing dragon and the one-legged Viking and thought that they truly—_finally_—looked like warriors of old, fierce and strong and unyielding.

Scott was full of awe.

"I _have_ their loyalty!" Engres snarled.

"Through pain," Hiccup said calmly, resting his hand on Toothless's head. "And fear. But that's not loyalty. That's obedience."

"There is not difference!"

"There is _all _the difference." Hiccup said. "And that—that is only _one_ of the reasons I will _never_ join you."

"ATTACK!" Engres screamed, dramatically pointing his finger at Hiccup. The Nightmare and Changewing flew at Hiccup and Toothless, screaming their own calls of battle. Hiccup and Toothless looked calmly at them before Toothless roared, his blue spines glowing a brighter blue than before.

The Nightmare and Changewing stopped, looking confused.

Engres howled at them, ordering them to attack, fight, do _something,_ but the Nightmare and Changewing looked hesitant and wary, eyeing Hiccup and Toothless like they were a bitter piece of meat.

"They won't," Hiccup told Engres. "Toothless is the Alpha, like you yourself said. They won't attack us."

"No," Engres gasped heavily, adrenaline no doubt coursing through his body. "I did all of this . . . _all_ of this for you, Master! I found the last three dragons on this world, I brought you back . . . you _OWE ME!"_ Spittle flew from his mouth, and he looked deranged.

"We owe you nothing." Hiccup said coldly, and Scott had never seen such a dark expression on his expressive face.

"NO!" The Skrill sucked in a breath, eyes narrowed in loathing. Toothless snorted, pawing the ground like a bull preparing to charge.

"Get 'em, bud." Scott heard Hiccup tell the dragon lowly.

The Skrill shot.

* * *

**A/N: So, hey, TOOTHLESS! I know a lot of you have been asking for him, so here he is. He was going to appear much, much earlier than this originally, but then he had to collect the rest of the dragons (because they are as much a part of the Destiny as the Riders) and then fly from, like, Norway to California. Even an ancient dragon has his limits. I know this chapter is short, but next one will deal with the battle stuff and . . . finally a peak into Hiccup's last days before he died. He makes me want to curl into a ball and cry. Hiccup's last days were NOT filled with Joy and Good Tidings.**

** I'm not sure about this chapter (I might come back and keep tweaking it) so please let me know what you think. I take all of your feedback into account. This was a filler chapter, really, just to get everyone (at LAST) together. But your reviews would be so helpful. Thank you for reading!**


	18. Chapter 18: If You Will Promise Me

Chapter 17: If You Will Promise Me Your Heart

**A/N: Thank you, reviewers! It means a lot. ****Kitsu Maxwell, you reviewed but I couldn't get through to reply for some reason. In answer to your review, Engres thought he had the upper hand. I mean, he's against six teenagers, essentially, with no dragons while he had three. So Toothless and the rest of the dragons coming in kind of ruined his plan. However, he may have a few more tricks up his sleeves . . .**

**lilnightmare17, totally. The A** kicking is here . . .**

**FYI—Hiccup was old when he died. So if he acts a little out of character, please remember he basically watched every single person he loved—and the dragons, which were his life's work—leave his life either in horrific death (Ruffnut was torn limb from limb, Astrid died screaming, etc.) or forced away (like the Berkians and the dragons) leaving him a very bitter old man. Just keep that in mind, when it comes to Engres. And I apologize in advance if the climax isn't everything you guys want. I SUCK at writing climaxes, and it's something I'm working on both in fanfiction and in my original works. If you guys have ANY comments or helpful criticism (and I mean helpful, please, not just 'I didn't like it') then I would LOVE to hear your thoughts.**

_ "_Sudūra yasa sansāramā parē," _He was cold, snow blowing past him in small little fluff. His hands shook as he handled the bowl and ingredients. His breath came out in huffs, his lungs needing air but his throat rejecting the cold. But that was what he got for doing this on a mountain top._

"tinīharūlā'ī bhāgna garauṁ, tinīharūlā'ī jāna garauṁ." _He dropped a few ingredients into the bowl and picked up the torch nearby that was protected from the wind because of the hulking black shadow. "_jīvita tinīharūlā'ī garauṁ, ma yasa lakṣya, āphailā'ī, pūrṇa dina, ma yasa lakṣya mērō sāthī ra āphnō mitraharulā'ī dina." _Said hulking black shadow warbled softly, questioningly. He wanted to stop and tell his best friend that everything would be okay, that this would be over soon and they'd be safe, but he couldn't stop now. "_hāmī pratīkṣā hunēcha, hāmī bacnēchan, hāmī basnēchan, yasa kāma garēkō cha sam'ma!" _He stuck the torch into the bowl and lit it up._

_He stumbled back to join his friend and they watched as the fire grew larger and larger, swirling around itself like a bowl of snakes._

_The shadow crooned._

"_I know, bud," he said. "But I couldn't think of anything else. There's been too much death."_

_A large head nudged him softly, probably afraid of knocking him over. Sometimes he wished he was still as young as his friend, but that wasn't how humans worked._

"_It'll be fine," he said instead, because he needed to convince both of them on that point._

_The shadow huffed._

"_Yeah, I know it probably wasn't the only choice," he murmured. "But any other choice would have resulted in the dragons staying here, and it's just not safe anymore."_

_The fire died down, leaving him colder than before. Inside of the bowl was a little round marble, perfectly shaped with colors swirling around inside of it._

_He picked it up._

"_This is it," he said. "We need an anchor. How does Berk sound?"_

_The shadow cooed._

"_That's what I thought," He smiled and climbed stiffly onto the shadows back. "Look, bud, I need to make that self-help tail fin again. You need to be able to fly on your own. I'm not going to live for very much longer."_

_The shadow growled, but his take off was gentle._

"_I know you hate it," he said. "I'm not too fond of it myself, but I can't think of anything else to do, and I'm . . . I'm going to die soon, bud. I can feel it. Let me give you one last gift, please."_

_There was a low hum, and he took that as acceptance. _

"_Thank you," he sighed._

_They arrived at Berk many days later. Once they soared as fast as possible, relishing in the speed and daring acrobatics. But he was old now, and his bones couldn't take it._

_Berk hadn't changed much but for the lack of people; he had sent them away before his journey was over. There were so few left, anyhow. Many died protecting dragons. So much death . . ._

_He went to the cove. He needed a place that held symbolic meaning to him, and there was no other place he could think of that held so much memory._

_The shadow trilled softly as it looked around at the familiar place before romping over to the lake and drinking deeply._

_The marble was clutched in his trembling fingers, and he set it gently down in the center of the cove. The shadow edged near it, looking curious._

"_It's time," He said to his friend. He looked up and shouted to the sky. "_Jādū garauṁ ra bhāgya jīvanaśailīlā'ī mā hāmīlā'ī sēṭa!"

_The marble began to spin._

_It spun faster and faster, picking up an incredible speed. The shadow leapt back, growling mistrustfully. His human companion joined him, albeit much slower. The peg leg hit the ground with a metallic _click.

_A portal opened up before them, wide enough so that any dragon—even the Red Death—could fit through._

"_Perfect," the human murmured. He turned to his shadow. "You ready to call the dragons?"_

_There was a low warbling before the human leaned forwards, resting his forehead against the shadow's._

"_Together as one," he said softly. "Are you ready?"_

_The shadow hesitantly nodded._

_Blue started to creep under the shadow's black scales until he practically glowed with it. It ran down his spine and along the tips of his wings. It spread to the human—what the shadow would use as an amplifier. The old man began to glow as well, his eyes and along the bones buried beneath layers of sagging, wrinkled skin._

_Suddenly the shadow roared, loud enough to be heard by the entire world. The note was long and drawn out, and the human pictured every dragon species he had ever seen in his travels over the world and prayed they would hear._

_The roar ended._

_They waited._

_They did not wait long. Soon dragons began pouring in. Many had fled to these isles where peace had reigned longest due to the man and his shadow. For years the islands had grown more and more populated, until dragons outnumbered the humans. The first wave was enormous; thousands of dragons crowded the sky, curious and questioning. _

_They were directed to the portal, full of skies and water and spires of land._

_It was paradise._

_The dragons went through._

_The shadow and the old man waited for days, for weeks, as all manner of dragons dragged themselves to Berk. Some came from the other end of the world while others from the depths of the ocean. They all poured through in a multi colored spectrum of wings and feathers and tails and claws and scales._

_The shadow and the man were ever watchful._

_They took turns; sometimes the man would disappear to an abandon village and make the shadow its freedom. Sometimes the shadow would wander about the island—never far away, but just for a new view._

_The man had the shadow's new tail done within the week. The shadow allowed the man to put it on, but glared balefully at it for the rest of the day._

_After that they mostly took turns sleeping, beneath the stars and dragon after dragon flew or crawled into the cove._

_When they had made sure the last dragon was safely gone, the shadow roared once again, listening with ear fins cocked for the distant sound of any straggling dragons._

_There were none._

_The shadow nodded to the man, who stepped and murmured, voice cracking; "_Tinīharūlē bhāgēkā chan, tinīharūlē ga'ēkā chan, tinīharū basnēchan, ma aba mūlya tirna hunēcha."

_The portal disappeared._

"_It looks like it's just you and me, bud." The man said softly, stroking the shadow's nose gently._

_But then the man froze._

_The shadow screeched as the man became opaque, slowly fading from view like sand beneath the wind. The shadow danced around the man, crying in pain and fear, warbling and crooning and screeching and shrieking. But the man was gone._

_The shadow was left alone in the cove. It frantically searched all over the small place, looking for its best friend, but there was no sign. It used its new tail fin to fly across the island, searching, searching, never resting._

_The man was nowhere._

_The shadow tried to flee the island, intent on searching the entire world if need be._

_It could not leave. The island would not allow it._

_And so it cried, and from its lamenting came the Call, the sound carrying to ever corner of the world. __Everyone huddled in their homes that night, unwilling to step foot beyond the comforting fires._

_Animals shrieked in symphony, their terrified wailing weaving in and out of the Call._

_No one slept that night._

_They stayed up, muttering to each other under the Call and the howls and braying and wondered in fear what was happening. What was making the Call? Did it mark The End?_

_But it meant no such thing. It marked the end of the Age of Dragons._

_And the loss of a friendship._

* * *

_"_NO!" Engres yelled. The Skrill sucked in a breath, eyes narrowed in loathing. Toothless snorted, pawing the ground like a bull preparing to charge. Hiccup felt Toothless's head bump against his leg, and he prepared to leap up into the saddle.

"Get 'em, bud." Hiccup whispered to Toothless, who snorted his agreement.

The Skrill shot.

* * *

Hiccup jumped on Toothless's back just as the Night Fury shot off a blast at the lightning, dispersing it again.

Toothless shot into the air, roaring a taunt back at the Skrill, which screamed back its hate.

"That Skrill _really_ doesn't like us, huh bud?" Hiccup shouted over the wind. Toothless snorted his satisfaction and smugness.

"Let's show this thing what we've got!" Hiccup yelled, guiding Toothless around in a way that felt natural . . . it felt like coming home.

The Skrill wasn't too far behind them, its eyes as narrowed as its rider's.

"C'mon, bud!" Hiccup yelled just as the Skrill opened its mouth to release another burst of lightning. Just as Hiccup and Toothless were preparing for the blast, the Skrill was knocked sideways by a fireball that had been . . . fired from Meatlug.

"Whoo hoo!" Fishlegs crowed, rubbing Meatlug's head adoringly. The twins began gassing up the place, boxing the Skrill into layers upon layers of gas while Belch and Hookfang lit it up in different parts.

_ "_Dragon Riders here!" Tuffnut called jeeringly to Engres. "You sure you up to this?"

Engres and the Skrill were recovering from the blast, but were right back to glaring.

"Thinking you'd take him out by yourself?" Astrid's amused voice asked. Hiccup looked around and saw her coming up to his side on Stormfly. She was grinning—the grin that promised blood would be spilt.

"Why ever would I think that?" Hiccup replied, looking at her with happiness. "Ready to take him down, m'lady?"

"Hel yes," Astrid growled.

* * *

The Riders chased the Skrill through the air, unable to hold back whoops of delight at being in the air again. Hiccup himself could hold back a smile as he and Toothless seemed to be almost one creature, speeding across the blue sky, faster than any of the other Riders could ever hope to reach.

Engres pulled out a gun.

Hiccup knew about guns. The sheriff of Beacon Hills had showed one to him a few days ago.

It didn't, exactly, prepare him.

The bullet didn't actually _hit _him. It grazed him. Hiccup had experienced more pain during the annual Regatta.

But Hiccup still gasped as the projectile sliced through his upper arm, through the layers of the strange 'modern' clothes he wore.

Toothless growled as if he had felt it, too, a sped up even more. They were gaining on the Skrill, their green eyes locked on their foes. The other Riders were shuffled out of their attention as their entire world was pinpointed around the purple dragons and its rider.

"Fire!" Hiccup ordered, and Toothless' signature shrill built up in the dragon's chest. The Skrill swerved the blast, its tail lashing as the plasma blast shot past it and dissipated into the open air.

Engres banked, the Skrill circling Hiccup. The other Riders were still catching up, Astrid in the lead.

"Looks like I've got you on your own," Engres smiled and leveled the gun again.

So Hiccup threw his flaming sword.

Engres' eyes widened as he watched the fiery blade slicing through the air, and he almost didn't get out of the way. Hiccup felt bad that he kind of wished Engres' surprise would have been enough to render him immobile long enough for the sword to reach him.

"You just lost your weapon," Engres taunted, a manic smile lighting up his face. He leveled the gun again.

"Did I?" Hiccup asked as he held up a large, flat piece of metal. Engres looked at it, confused.

"I only had three days to work on this," Hiccup explained. "But, really, it only took me five hours to make the sword. I've made dozens of them in my life. I can practically make them in my sleep."

"So what's that?" Engres asked. "A shield? Won't do much against a gun."

Hiccup grinned. It wasn't a friendly one.

"Oh, no," he promised. "It's just a very, very, _very_ strong magnet."

Engres didn't look around in time before the sword sliced through his shoulder on the way back to Hiccup.

Engres howled, clutching his shoulder as Hiccup reclaimed his sword, removing it from the magnet with the push of a button (and really, he was _loving _today's engineering advancements.)

"Hiccup!" Astrid yelled. "What the Hel?" She and the other Riders had managed to catch up to them, and were looking at the blood that fell from Hiccup and Engres' shoulders with a kind of horrified surprise.

Hiccup winced as he looked at her and shrugged his good arm slightly.

That was when the Skrill decided enough was enough. It shot like an arrow towards Fishlegs and Meatlug, the slowest of the Riders. Meatlug stopped flapping her wings, falling like a boulder through the air to the ground below. Fishlegs didn't even flinch as the Skrill's reaching claws ruffled his hair.

"We have to get it away from civilization," Fishlegs shouted from below. He and Meatlug were once again gaining altitude. "Where should we put it?"

"The ocean," Hiccup said, smelling the salt in the air.

"Water _conducts _electricity, like the Thor statue we had," Astrid snapped.

"I know," Hiccup replied. "But that Skrill is going to run out of juice. Soon it'll be helpless, and we don't want it crashing into someone's house. No one lives in the water."

"Except the fish." Snotlout pointed out.

"Excellent! Fried fish!" Tuffnut crowed.

They ended up driving the Skrill to the water. Since there were no Berserkers to cause them to retreat, they had plenty of time to taunt Engres and the Skrill, driving them both lower and lower. The Skrill's eyes had widened when its claw had brushed the water, its panic almost causing Engres to lose control.

The Skrill gave it as good as it had; lightening crackled in its chest and rippled across its wings and back. Hiccup saw that Engres was sitting on a padded saddle that was thick enough to absorb most of the electricity before it reached him.

Ingenious, Hiccup thought.

If Engres wasn't so crazy, Hiccup would have loved to sit down with him and talk about inventions.

The Skrill lashed out and hit nothing. Hiccup wasn't surprised; it had only fought their sixteen year old selves before; not the Riders that flew before it now, with the experience of decades and the trust in their dragons that no other Berkian had achieved.

Engres had not counted on the Riders and their dragons. Hiccup could read the panic in his countenance and increasingly desperate screams.

Finally Engres screamed and launched himself off of the Skrill's back and onto the cliff face. Hiccup and Astrid left the Skrill to the others and hovered near Engres. His eyes were wide, as if he was just now realizing that he was precariously perched on a sheer cliff with fifty feet to go in either direction.

"Look," Hiccup called. "The dragons are happy and safe—they don't need humans anymore, Engres. And humans don't need dragons. Just—just come with us. We can show you."

"It was always my dream to look out into the world and see humans and dragons living side by side!" Engres shouted back. "Ever since I was little. I thought that if anyone would understand, it would be the Dragon Master calling to me in my dreams. You're nothing but a failure!"

Hiccup's face tightened. "I've protected the dragons," he said. "I kept them from going _extinct._ How is that a failure?"

"You should have worked it out with the humans!" Engres said, his voice breaking. "You should have tried for joined peace."

"I did," Hiccup's face sagged in sorrow. "All it wrought were the deaths of my friends and family; of my people. There was too much death."

Engres looked at Hiccup for a long time, staring at Hiccup as though he had never seen him before.

"There could have been peace," he said before he fell.

Hiccup encouraged Toothless after him, heard Astrid join him in the descent, but Engres released something from his hand—a smoked eel.

The dragons swerved to avoid it on habit.

Engres crashed onto the rocks.

There was silence.

The Skrill howled, ignoring the Dragon Riders as it watched Engres's body. It blasted the last of its lightning in every direction, scattering the Riders. When the electricity was gone from the air, all they could see were ripples in the frothing ocean water.

The Skrill never resurfaced.

Hiccup's face crumpled, though he was careful not to let the others see it.

"C'mon," Hiccup called out. "Let's go back."

They flew through the air, and Hiccup bent low over Toothless, who looked worriedly up at him out of the corner of his eye.

"I know," Hiccup said heavily. "I know, bud. That was on us."

Toothless crooned.

* * *

They stopped in a clearing, somewhat unwilling to go back to the pack. They wanted to be alone for a small time.

Fishlegs and Snotlout and the twins were laughing and teasing each other about the fight, ribbing Snotlout on some poorly executed maneuver while Fishlegs suffered scrutiny about almost crashing into the ocean. They all stayed close to their dragons, nobody willing to go too far away from their friends and companions.

Hiccup and Astrid pulled away from the others, their own dragons respectful shadows hovering just in reach.

Hiccup absentmindedly bound his arm, though most of the bleeding had already stopped.

"Astrid," Hiccup said once he was done. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," she said and punched him in the stomach.

"What was that for?" he wheezed, doubling over and clutching at his midsection.

"For doing something stupid." Astrid said shakily. "For leaving me alone for a thousand years."

"I think I deserve to be hit harder for that," Hiccup muttered.

Astrid ignored him and kissed him, running her hand through her hair. One of her fingers caught on the braid and she pulled back from the kiss, looking at it. She'd unraveled part of it. Slowly she redid it while whispering;

"That's for coming back."

Hiccup smiled and hugged her.

Stormfly sidled up and demanded a bit of attention, which Astrid gave her. Hiccup looked around for his own dragon.

Toothless was sitting not too far away, his pupils large and square in his green eyes. He was humming deep in his throat, and Hiccup was reminded of the first time he bonded with Toothless.

He stuck his hand out to Toothless, looking at the Night Fury with a steady, unflinching gaze. Toothless closed his eyes after a moment and nudged his nose into Hiccup's hand. Hiccup leaned forwards so that they were forehead to forehead.

"I'm so sorry, bud." Hiccup whispered hoarsely. "I never meant for you to be alone, either. It seems I just failed all around, huh?"

Toothless snorted and pulled back, giving Hiccup a _very_ unimpressed look. His tail swiped around Hiccup's legs, and Hiccup suddenly found himself lying on his back looking up at the sky while Toothless's head crashed down on his already sore abdomen.

"Aargh!" Hiccup moaned. "Your _head,_ Toothless . . ." Toothless chuckled, but refused to move. Distantly they heard the other Riders and their dragons laughing at them, but they were too relieved to be together again.

"I've felt like a part of me was missing," Hiccup said quietly. "I've missed you so much, Toothless."

Toothless crooned in agreement before rolling to the side, scooping Hiccup up in his arms as he did so. Hiccup laughed as he found himself hugged to the dragon's chest like a doll, and he wiggled to make himself more comfortable.

"I'm never going to leave you again, Toothless." Hiccup said, craning his neck to look at the dragon. "I promise."

Toothless gave him a gummy smile.

Hiccup returned it (though his had teeth. He had teeth again!); they'd be alright.


	19. Chapter 19: Rebuild and Move On

_Chapter 18: Rebuild and Move On_

_**A/N: Returning to Scott's POV.**_

* * *

When the dust cleared, Scott first looked to make sure his pack was okay. Stiles and Lydia were still next to him, looking dusty and slightly pained, but nothing too bad. Stiles's dad and Scott's mom were further back in the designated 'safe' zone across the street where the ice machine was hidden. Derek, Malia and Argent were a few yards away, getting slowly to their feet. They looked dusty, but there was no blood. Kira and Isaac were behind him flanking him. They were still lying on the ground.

Peter was nowhere to be seen, but Scott kind of expected that. He'd get Derek to get a location on his psychotic uncle as soon as possible.

Scott sucked in a breath. They were all okay. They had all made it.

They were safe.

Well, his pack was. Scott tried to assure himself that the Vikings to help themselves. They had their dragons now.

They _would_ be okay.

"Everyone's okay, right?" Scott asked the group at large. There was some coughing, but Scott saw nods all around.

Confirmation, Scott mentally sighed in relief.

"Where are the Dragon Riders?" Kira asked, shaking her head, her eyes flashing as she looked around. Her hair was tangled slightly, and her swords were dangling uselessly be her side.

"I don't know," Scott said, looking around.

The Dragon Riders and their dragons were gone. Engres and his dragons were, too. Though the new dragon—the black one, Toothless—had stopped the Nightmare and the Changewing in their tracks, they seemed to have shaken out of their stupor and flew away. Scott needed to deal with that, eventually.

"Get under cover." Argent called to them, already moving himself to the relative cover of the trees across the street from the school. "Don't stay under the open."

The pack retreated to where the ice machine sat, unneeded.

"We need to find them," Kira said immediately.

"Agreed, but . . . they're kind of on winged dragons." Isaac pointed out. "We're not,"

"Thank you for that unnecessary commentary," Stiles snapped.

"Lydia?" Kira asked. "Are you okay?"

Lydia was looking at nothing, her gaze horrified. Her limp hair hung around her face, and Scott stepped forwards even as Kira caught ahold of one of Lydia's unresponsive hands.

"Lydia?" Scott tried softly, "Are you . . . is this a Banshee thing?"

Lydia screamed.

* * *

The pack was back at Deaton's office, talking to each other. No one could hear what was being said over all the noise and babble. The general gist of the conversations was Lydia's screaming—and who had died.

Lydia herself was wrapped in a blanket, Scott's mom looking after her. Lydia was still staring in the distance, but she looked much more composed.

"This could be bad," Stiles was telling Scott in a corner, watching Scott's mom fuss over Lydia, trying to get her to drink some tea.

"I know," Scott said. "It could be one of them."

"Snotlout I wouldn't mind," Stiles muttered under his breath. "But not the rest. Not even the twins. They can't die, Scott. It's not fair."

"We don't know a lot of people with a good track record of the world being 'fair' to them," Scott said tiredly. He peered at Stiles out of the corner of his eyes. "You're an example of that," he murmured.

Stiles avoided his gaze. "I'm fine,"

"No, you're not. You're recovering," Scott corrected. "It's okay to tell me things, man."

Stiles shrugged uncomfortably. "If Engres died, I don't think I'll weep," he said. "The guy killed a lot of people, Scott."

"Yes, he has," Scott said.

"But what if it's Hiccup? Or Astrid? Or, hell, Fishlegs?"

"They're all competent," Scott said firmly. "They'll be okay, Stiles."

"Don't promise things you can't know of," Stiles warned him. His dad called him over in that moment, and Stiles and Scott shared a glance, one filled with worry for their new friends.

Scott didn't want them to die, either.

The Vikings had gained their trust in the few days Scott and his pack had known them. They had become people Scott _would_, in fact, trust with the lives of his friends and town. They had started out as a whim, and idea for how to stop the dragons, but had morphed into people Scott would willingly take into his pack.

He didn't know when _that_ had happened, but he thought it might have been around the time Hiccup had spoken to him about Astrid.

The Vikings were blunt. They let Scott know where he stood with them. They let him know their plans. It was like they had no other motives than helping Scott defeat Engres and his dragons and reuniting with each other after a thousand years.

It was refreshing, having people be so clear about what they wanted. After the Nogitsune, after the Alpha Pack, after the mystery of the Kanima, it was so _new_ to be around people who were exactly what they said they were.

And that, perhaps, had been what finalized Scott's trust in them.

Stiles was constantly warning Scott that he trusted too much too easily; he gave away his confidence in people like candy on Halloween.

But he made the right call, this time around.

The Riders would return.

It was then he noticed the blob in the distance nearing them.

Scott was pretty sure only he and Doctor Deaton noticed when Fishlegs and his bumblebee dragon—Meatlug, right? Scott loved the Viking names—landed outside.

"Be quiet! One of them is back!" Scott shouted. The prattle died away as more people noticed Fishlegs walking up to the door. The bell tinkled lightly as Fishlegs walked inside, smiling slightly.

"Daddy will be right back," He cooed to the dragon like it was a cherished baby as he opened the door.

The dragon looked at him with adoration, waiting near the door it was too large to fit through.

"Who died?" Several people asked at once.

Fishlegs blinked, still holding open the door. "How did you . . . Banshee, right?" his gaze landed on Lydia, and his eyes were warm.

"Right," Stiles said. "Who died?"

"Engres and the Skrill." Fishlegs said. "We didn't kill them, though Astrid looked like she was going to. No, Engres committed suicide and the Skrill . . . kinda died? I think he actually befriended the Skrill, and it didn't want to go without him."

There was a beat of silence.

"Seriously?" Stiles suddenly complained. "We find you gone, Lydia screamed, and _then_ we find out you had all the fun _without us?"_

"It wasn't _fun_," Fishlegs protested as several voices cried "_Stiles!"._ "It was . . . well, an unfortunate necessity."

"We did all that work—all those traps and things—and we didn't _need _them?" Stiles was on a roll, torn between thankfulness and disappointment.

"Hiccup wasn't counting on our dragons showing up," Fishlegs said weakly. "That was a surprise."

"So what now?" Stiles's dad cut in, looking seriously at Fishlegs.

Fishlegs brightened. "We rebuild."

Scott looked out of the windows at the town, half destroyed and still smoking in places. It had been reduced to a ghost town, with no people walking along the streets and going into shops. The survivors were still in hiding.

It was going to take a long, long time to rebuild.

* * *

It took less time than Scott had thought to begin the actually rebuilding—the physical lifting and remodeling of buildings and houses. The Vikings had immediately volunteered, Fishlegs and Hiccup already excitedly talking about what they wanted to work on first. Scott could see that Stiles' dad was reluctant, at first, to hand the project over to the Riders, but he caved in as soon as it became clear the pack needed to help the people and let them know it was safe.

Turns out, Vikings were _excellent_ builders. Lydia, after she recovered, scoffed at the notion they wouldn't be.

"We've seen what they can build." She said. "Flaming swords and ships that were unparalleled to, really, any other ship in that region. Of _course_ they know how to build."

They worked for days, with the aid of the surviving residents. The school and Main Street were looking better. Anything that couldn't be built was going to be brought from the outside.

Deaton and Stiles had immediately started working on taking down the force field, finding the focus point of the spell and disabling it.

They managed to after three days of hard work, and after that Beacon Hills was even more like a ghost town than it had been before as the residence got out of the town limits as fast as possible.

The government and . . . well, the entire world, really, wanted to know what happened to Beacon Hills.

No one mentioned the dragons—no one would believe them. Some story was made up, and the world had no choice to accept it as the people of Beacon Hills tried to get used to their new view of the supernatural.

Most people never came back. Some did.

Scott and his pack rebuilt.

Fishlegs and Argent added more to the Argent Bestiary, marking down everything Fishlegs remembered about dragons. The Vikings built themselves a temporary home on the reserve, large enough so that their dragons could live there as well. Scott and the pack learned so much about dragons it wasn't funny; they learned that Meatlug was a Gronckle who ate rocks and preferred quartz; they learned that Stormfly was a Nadder who was very vain and could shoot spikes from her tail. There was Hookfang the Nightmare, who seemed to like picking Snotlout up with his mouth; Barf and Belch, the two headed dragons that the twins rode acted like long-suffering parents at the twins' antics. Scott and Stiles spent most of their time in the Viking home, learning more and more about who the Vikings were.

Lydia and Astrid often broke away, Lydia demanding to know everything about the Berkian culture. She wrote everything down and Scott got lost more than once when he tried to listen in as the women leapt from subject to subject at an incredible rate.

Viking history was indeed almost being rewritten.

Scott and his pack had remained on the lookout for Engres' two escaped dragons though Scott, under the request of Hiccup, had ordered a 'no kill'. The two dragons had been found the day before Stiles and Deaton had broken the force field, and Hiccup had tamed them both, reaching out with his hand to the awe of those around him and touching the dragons gently on the nose.

It had been incredible to watch.

After that Hiccup had offered to teach Stiles how to train the dragons, and of course Stiles had jumped at the chance. Stiles, under Hiccup's guidance, trained Engres's Nightmare and Changewing, named Gunnar and Saga in that order by Stiles. Scott got into it a little bit, liking the calm demeanor of Gunnar while Stiles was as sporadic as Saga—and as playful. Stiles was having the time of his life training the dragons, and Scott hadn't seen him this happy since . . . since before his mom died.

It seemed he was finally forgiving himself.

Scott and the sheriff shared a look, one evening when Stiles and Saga the Changewing were playing hide-and-go-seek (Stiles lost every time, but he always demanded a rematch). Both Scott and Stiles's dad could finally see that Stiles was getting better.

They both breathed easier.

Then, one night, two weeks later, the Dragon Riders asked to talk to Scott, Stiles and Lydia.

Scott showed up, took one look at the grim faces and said;

"You're leaving."


	20. Chapter 20: All Things Must End

Chapter 19: All Things Must Come To An End

**A/N: Sorry this is late. My birthday was Wednesday, and I was social for . . . the last tw0 days. I'm an introvert. This. Sucks.**

**But seriously, this is the last chapter so let me thank you for reading. Thank you for reviewing, following, liking, etc. It means so much to me, even if this fic didn't turn out amazingly (I'm still working on my writing skills and I consider my fanfiction practise) so thank you. It means the world to me.**

**Please enjoy this last chapter!**

* * *

It was done quietly. Gunnar and Saga joined them. It was at night Hiccup enacted the spell he used a thousand years ago.

He and Toothless began to glow that same blue light; Hiccup's eyes glowing blue and his skin seemed to be emitting the same soft light while Toothless's spine and nostrils glowed. They looked unearthly, dragon and Viking, like the gods of old.

Hiccup began to chant in a foreign tongue. From the looks of the other Vikings, it was not one they were familiar with. Scott thought, perhaps, it was from someplace in China, or something like that.

Stiles and Lydia were the only other witnesses (besides the Riders) as a portal began forming, rending a hole in their world.

"Whoa," Scott heard Stiles mutter under his breath.

It swirled. It twisted. It danced in front of them like the most elegant silk, sliding in front of the darkening trees in thick ropey streams.

When Hiccup's voice grew louder and louder, the light strands gathered together and paled, a white light shining through like sunlight—and in the midst of that light, an image appeared of a place the likes of which Scott had never seen before.

Beyond they saw a world bathed in pinks and blues, the clouds painted by the setting sun and the shifting ocean below. Spires of rocks jutted out of the waters, and islands could be seen in the far distant horizon.

_ "This is where Berk went,"_ Hiccup's voice slithered like a snake through their minds. His mouth did not move. Scott made a valiant effort not to jump, but failed. _"Hidden between worlds. When Toothless left Berk, it joined fully with this world. It's out there right now."_

"Home," Fishlegs said distantly, his blue eyes locked on the portal.

The portal kept stretching and widening until each dragon could comfortably fit through there. Gunnar and Saga looked at Stiles, who smiled encouragingly. Saga nuzzled his hand before going to stand next to Gunnar. They both faced the portal, looked at Stiles and Scott one last time, and left. They hopped though the portal and dropped into the air and spreading their wings, flying off. They were lost in the clouds.

"Bye," Scott heard Stiles mutter softly behind him.

"You don't have to go," Lydia said, her voice wavering slightly. "Earth is your home, too."

Astrid laughed, not unkindly. "We're from a time long passed," she said. "We don't belong here anymore."

"Astrid and I could stay," Fishlegs said. "After all, we do have actual lives here. But . . . well, it's not the same without dragons. It's never been the same. I don't want to live here without Meatlug," he threw an adoring look at his Gronckle.

Scott watched as one of the spires of rock erupted in dragons taking flight, circling the rock and gliding down to the sea.

"We'll be happy here," Fishlegs said blissfully. "All the dragons in one place. We'll live out our days here. We'll be very happy."

_ "I do not know how long those days will be,"_ Hiccup warned. "_Time passes differently here,"_ Toothless warbled lowly, looking at the portal with longing.

"Let's do it," Astrid said, stepping forwards. "We're Vikings; exploring is an occupational hazard."

"I'm in!" Snotlout said.

"Me too," Ruffnut cackled.

"Me three—no, four—no, wait, what?" Tuffnut was punched by his sister, their dragons—dragon? The two heads—looking down with amusement.

"Sign me up," Fishlegs said. He climbed onto Meatlug, caressing her head softly before taking off and flying through the portal.

"Woo hoo!" They heard him shout as he and Meatlug spiraled less-than majestically through the air. Snotlout and the twins climbed onto their dragons immediately and took off, joining Fishlegs.

Astrid gave them all a small, sincere smile. "Coming, Hiccup?" she asked as she climbed her own dragon. Stormfly spread her wings in anticipation.

"_In a moment,"_ Hiccup said. Astrid nodded and took off, looping around and spinning through the sky.

Scott, Stiles and Lydia were left alone with Hiccup and Toothless—truly the last dragon and his Rider on this earth.

"_Do not fret,"_ Hiccup's voice said. He was looking directly at Scott, and from the curious looks Stiles and Lydia were giving him, he was speaking only to Scott.

"Why not?" Scott said. "You're . . . you're leaving forever. We're never going to see you again."

Hiccup smiled and he began to whisper.

Scott's eyes grew wider and wider as he listened to what Hiccup had to say before smiling and nodding his farewell. "Fly safely," he said.

Hiccup and Toothless bowed their heads before Hiccup swung on Toothless's back. His peg leg clicked against the stirrup and the prosthetic tail flapped open.

Hiccup turned to look back once last time at the world where he had lived for a thousand years.

_ "Thank you, Scott, Stiles and Lydia. We are ever in your debt."_

And with that, Hiccup flew away.

* * *

_One year later_

"This is the place!" Stiles said. There was a hiss of breath exhaled from the person at his side. "Don't hush me, Lydia. This is the place!"

"It is," Scott said, smiling. "Look!" The other two looked up and saw a world bathed in pink and blue with rolling clouds and crashing waves. The image hung in the air, floating at waist height at its lowest and near the tree tops at its highest.

The portal was once again just a few feet away from them, a rent in the fabric of the world.

"Well, hello there!" Hiccup's voice called. On a rock spire not too far away waited all six Dragon Riders on their dragons, grinning up at them. "What're you waiting for?"

"How are we expected to get down there? Sprout wings and fly?" Stiles asked sarcastically.

"Well, there's two dragons who really want to see you . . ." Astrid yelled, grinning widely as a familiar Nightmare and Changewing drifted into view.

"Gunnar!" Stiles called excitedly, "Saga!"

"Hop on!" Hiccup said. "Let's see what you guys think of flying . . ."

It was only for a day, Scott thought. One day, once a year. But ohh . . . that wait was worth it when he climbed on the back of a dragon and entered a world he'd never seen before.

* * *

Once there were dragons on this earth.

You'll have to take my word for it, for the dragons have long since gone, as have their Riders. Their time will never come again. Humans live their lives, and dragons live theirs separately. The dragons fly beneath the sun and moon, glide beneath the frothing waves, slink beneath the groaning trees.

There is a special island, still twelve days north of Hopeless and a few degrees south of Freezing to Death and located solidly on the Meridian of Misery. It's inhabited by a large number of dragons, but also six human Riders, living where they once did. They are the only humans to live there, and they are happy.

And, once a year, for one day, the Portal opens itself to those with goodness and kindness in their hearts who wish to see what that mystical world has to offer.

So if you look hard enough, and mean no harm, perhaps you can enter a world where dragons nest beneath the stars, living peacefully under the rule of the Dragon Master and their Riders.

Perhaps you can find the World of Dragons.

_Let the wind carry us_  
_To the clouds, hurry up, alright_  
_We can travel so far_  
_As our eyes can see_

_I'm awake when up in the skies_  
_There's no break up so high, alright_  
_Let's make it our own,_  
_Let's savor it_

_We go where no one goes_  
_We slow for no one_  
_Get out of our way_

_We go where no one goes_


End file.
